


Under the Coat

by Loopy456



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 48,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loopy456/pseuds/Loopy456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John knows what eating disorders look like. The thing is, he’d found nothing. There was nothing, nada, zero, absolutely no evidence for any kind of eating disorder. No anorexia, no bulimia, nothing. It lulled him into a false sense of security.</i>
</p><p>Sherlock always wears his coat, no matter what the weather or the season. Not that there's any particular reason for this, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for eating disorders and associated psychological problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started off as a fic simply about eating disorders, but has sort of developed into a fic which is also about friendship and letting people love you, in their own way. It explores Sherlock's relationships with both John and Mycroft and tries to tackle some of his problems along the way as well.
> 
> I'll just say that I know that Sherlock-with-an-eating-disorder doesn't fit well with quite a lot of people's headcanons, and I wholeheartedly agree that Sherlock would not be affected by societal pressures such as the 'need to be thin', so that is therefore not what this story is about. Eating disorders are largely psychological in nature, and I hope in trying to tackle that side of things, people can see this as being somewhat realistic. 
> 
> I mean for this to be canon-compliant in every way but the obvious, although I personally can see this fitting in very nicely with the series, as something which simply happens off screen.

John knows what eating disorders look like. The first time they had dinner together, the very first night, he had been shocked at Sherlock’s proclamation that he didn’t need to eat. His doctor’s hat had popped itself on his head of its on accord and he’d found himself appraising Sherlock for the rest of the evening. When he wasn’t trying to stop the man from getting himself killed, of course.

The thing is, he’d found nothing. There was nothing, nada, zero, absolutely no evidence for any kind of eating disorder. No anorexia, no bulimia, nothing. It lulled him into a false sense of security.

***

Chasing criminals around London is hard work. It’s keeping John fit, at least. Maybe not quite Afghanistan-fit, because that’s hard to top, but fit enough and definitely enough to keep his appetite at Army levels.

‘Dinner, Sherlock?’ John calls through to the living room. 

Sherlock is working on a case for a client, involving a break in and an old schoolboy grudge. Apparently it’s not as clear-cut as it might otherwise seem. John hasn’t asked. He just knows that, when the pieces rolling frantically through Sherlock’s brain finally clunk into place, he’ll probably be expected to drop everything at a minute’s notice to go tearing across London, so he wants to be prepared.

‘Busy,’ says Sherlock. ‘Shut up.’

After several months, John is used to this by now, so he barely rolls his eyes as he sets about making his own dinner. Sherlock will be Sherlock, after all.

It doesn’t take long, only a couple of hours, before Sherlock is leaping off the sofa with alarming alacrity, the coat that he neglected to take off upon arriving at the flat approximately 36 hours ago flaring out around him.

‘Come, John,’ is all he says.

‘You’ve got something, then?’ John checks. He’s full and sleepy and right now his chair is very comfortable indeed, thank you very much, and he has little inclination to get up and leave it, let alone the flat.

‘Obviously,’ Sherlock says scornfully. ‘Come on, John. There’s not a moment to waste. If I’m right, which I am, we have approximately 43 minutes.’

‘Until what?’ 

John is still struggling to catch up but not, to Sherlock’s consternation, making any effort to get up. He supposes that John must be commended for his mental activities, but are physical ones so hard to accomplish at the same time?

‘Get up,’ Sherlock cannot be bothered to explain to idiots right now. Maybe later.

‘Alright, alright, I’m coming,’ John grumbles, levering himself out of his chair. ‘Are you quite sure this cannot wait until tomorrow, Sherlock?’

’41 minutes,’ Sherlock glares at him and John gives in completely.

‘Is this a gun situation or not?’ he enquires politely, as one might about whether or not an umbrella might be appropriate for a day out.

Sherlock considers, his head on one side.

‘Might as well,’ he says. ‘As long as you don’t get all trigger happy.’

‘Trigger happy?’ splutters John. ‘I’m not sixteen, Sherlock, I do understand when it’s appropriate to use a firearm and when it’s not.’

‘Excellent,’ Sherlock says briskly. ‘Then what’s the trouble? Only do hurry up, John, I would hate to have to inform my client that it’s your fault the man who is currently plotting to kidnap her son evaded capture this evening.’

‘Kidnap her son?’ John echoes faintly.

Sherlock just flounces off down the stairs.

***

47 minutes later, John is busy trying to phone Lestrade, chase after the suspect and stop Sherlock from stealing his gun all at the same time. It’s a hard task, especially sprinting at full pelt.

‘Hello Greg? It’s John– Leave it alone, Sherlock! We’re down at… the docks– Don’t even think about it, Sherlock, I’m warning you! Break-in, kidnapper apparently… Heading west…’

At this point, John decides that Lestrade now has enough information and hangs up to concentrate on his remaining two tasks.

‘Leave it out, Sherlock,’ he growls, trying to slap Sherlock’s hand away from the small of his back again.

‘Concentrate… on… running,’ Sherlock suggests. 

He sounds surprisingly out of breath. John frowns for a second, all the while not losing sight of the man they’re pursuing. Then again, they haven’t run around like this for a couple of weeks so Sherlock’s probably out of practice. That would explain why John is leaving him behind a little. More than a little, actually.

Knowing that Sherlock will actually consider homicide if John lets the suspect get away because he slows down to wait for his friend, John doesn’t turn back to look at Sherlock again until he hears a crash and a muffled expletive.

‘You alright, Sherlock?’ he calls, unable to stop himself from skidding to a halt and spinning around.

The consulting detective is sprawled on the floor about 30 metres behind John. John gives up the suspect as a bad job and hurries back to his friend.

‘What are… you doing?’ Sherlock snarls at him as he approaches. He’s still lying on the floor. ‘Get after him!’

‘Plenty of time for that,’ John says reassuringly, crouching down next to Sherlock and getting his breath back. ‘You said he wasn’t planning the kidnapping for at least another four days. Are you alright?’

‘Of course I’m… alright,’ Sherlock tries to snap, but the effect is rather ruined by the heaving of his chest and the fact that he is staying rather closely acquainted with the ground.

‘What happened anyway?’ John asks, looking around from something which Sherlock could have fallen over.

‘Tripped,’ Sherlock mutters sullenly.

‘Over?’ prompts John, mildly amused.

‘Nothing in particular,’ the words seemed wrenched from Sherlock against his will. John disguises his grin, even though Sherlock’s position on the ground and the lack of light mean it’s not really necessary.

‘Any injuries?’ John queries, running his eye over Sherlock’s back and legs.

‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock’s teeth are gritted.

‘Just having a little nap there then, are we?’ John’s grinning again. He’ll need to check Sherlock over later but he shouldn’t have done himself much damage. He may have a scraped knee or something, but nothing more serious.

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock retorts. He’s finally getting his breath back. His chest has stopped heaving quite so dramatically.

***

At home, John puts his doctor’s hat on.

‘Jacket and shirt off,’ he says. 

Sherlock, sulking on the sofa, glares at him.

‘Not necessary,’ he says stiffly.

‘You’ve got mud all over your face,’ John informs him. ‘And you’ve managed to tear one of your trouser legs. You’re a mess and you need to get changed at any rate, so go and put your pyjamas on and I’ll come and find you in the bathroom. I just want to check you haven’t bruised any ribs or anything.’

Something passes across Sherlock’s face and he pulls his suit jacket tighter around himself.

‘No,’ he says sullenly.

‘Go, now,’ John plants his feet on the floor and points along the corridor to Sherlock’s room and the bathroom. ‘Five minutes. I mean it.’

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in his pyjamas and dressing gown, sulking hard.

‘Dressing gown off,’ John instructs, perched on the edge of the bath.

‘No,’ says Sherlock. John raises one eyebrow. Sherlock slowly undoes the tie of his dressing gown.

‘T-shirt off,’ John says patiently, when Sherlock’s dressing gown is a pile of material at his feet.

‘No,’ says Sherlock. John folds his arms. Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock grasps the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head.

‘Why are you wearing two t-shirts?’ John asks, confused. ‘It’s not cold in here at all.’

Sherlock’s expression could shatter glass.

‘Come on,’ John says impatiently. ‘Next one off. I’m only trying to help you, Sherlock. You went down hard onto concrete. You might have cracked a rib.’

‘Can’t I make that decision?’ Sherlock’s voice is snappish and acidic, but underneath that there’s something else. A little wobble. John frowns.

‘It’s this, or hospital,’ John says pleasantly. 

The next t-shirt comes over Sherlock’s head and joins its friend on the floor. Sherlock glowers at John.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ John glares at Sherlock’s still covered chest. ‘This is ridiculous, Sherlock. How many layers are you wearing? We’re in the bathroom, not going to the North Pole. Off, all of them. Now. Do it.’

It might be two t-shirts that come up and over Sherlock’s head at once, or it might be three. John doesn’t notice. 

He’s too busy retching silently into the bath.


	2. Chapter 2

Throwing up was not a good plan, John knows this immediately. But then again, the action wasn’t exactly voluntary.

By the time his stomach has stopped heaving, John is alone in the bathroom and all he can hear, apart from his own heart pounding in his head, is the thunder of feet up the stairs followed by the slamming of a door. In 221b, the only doors with locks on are the two bathrooms. Sherlock has evidently vacated his own in favour of John’s.

Upstairs, the lock of John’s bathroom clicks with far more noise than should be possible, and then silence falls. John puts his head in his hands and wills himself not to throw up again.

Oh God.

Oh _Sherlock_.

No wonder Sherlock didn’t want to take his t-shirts off. And no wonder he was wearing four or five of them in the first place. John could tell without examining him that Sherlock hasn’t broken any ribs this evening, although how he hasn’t is something of a miracle. He must have been wearing lots and lots of layers.

John has seen thin patients before. He’s seen emaciated patients who are starving themselves and he’s never so much as twitched an eyebrow. But this is Sherlock and he wasn’t expecting it. When you ask your flatmate to take his shirt off so you can check for broken ribs, you don’t expect to see every single one of those ribs protruding from his chest. You don’t expect to see that you could quite easily slip your fingers in up and under his ribcage.

_How did I miss this?_

John sits on the edge of the bath for a long time. There’s no noise from upstairs.

Eventually, John drags himself up and cleans the bath. He then goes and stands at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up, until he loses track of time. It takes a lot of courage to walk upstairs.

The bathroom door is shut and he doesn’t need to try the handle to know that the bolt is across. John looks around helplessly. Sherlock is dressed only in pyjamas bottoms and, despite the fact that it’s June, he’ll be cold. There’s not an ounce of fat on him at all.

The light is off in the bathroom and there’s no noise from inside, but John knows Sherlock is in there and he won’t be asleep. He also won’t be coming out this evening. The thermostat for the bathroom radiator is on the wall outside the door and, ignoring the season, John turns it up to full. There’s nothing else he can do.

John sits down at the top of the stairs.

_I’ve just reinforced everything bad that’s going on in Sherlock’s head right now. I could not have had a worse reaction._

He feels sick again. He’s a doctor, for pity’s sake. How is it possible that he could have let his flatmate, his friend get in such a bad state without noticing, without suspecting? Sherlock is not just a bit too skinny, he is frighteningly underweight. No-one gets like that overnight. That look only comes after months of starvation.

_You were fine. You were okay, back in February. I checked. I watched you obsessively for several days. Diagnosis: oddly low appetite but healthy. How did I miss this?_

Anorexia nervosa is a dangerous condition. It kills people every year. Especially people like Sherlock, who are stubborn. Stubborn people refuse to admit that they have a problem and until they do, there’s nothing anyone can do to help. Sherlock will never admit that there’s something wrong.

‘What do I do?’ John whispers to himself. ‘What do I do?’

 _You’re a doctor,_ hisses a voice in his brain. _Deal with it. Make him better._

John is no expert on eating disorders, but he knows the basics. People, especially teenagers worried about body image and affected daily by the ‘perfect bodies’ they see in the media, starve themselves to try and get some level of control over their lives. The longer it goes on for, the harder the habit is to break.

Where does Sherlock fit in to all this? There’s nothing about him that suggests ‘eating disorder’. He is one of the most in control and self-confident people John has ever met. Is it all an act? Surely not. Sherlock is an excellent actor, especially when he wants something, but no-one can maintain an act 24 hours a day.

_If anyone could, it’s Sherlock. And if that’s not the reason, then what? Tell me that, doctor._

‘I don’t know,’ John admits. ‘I don’t.’

Sherlock eats. Doesn’t he?

_When did you last see him eat? Go on, tell me. See if you can remember._

Sherlock hasn’t eaten for days. Maybe a week. John feels ill again.

No wonder he fell. No wonder he fell and couldn’t get up. No wonder John left him behind this evening. How Sherlock didn’t just collapse when he bounced up of the sofa earlier John has no idea. But that cannot be a good sign. It means that Sherlock’s body is accustomed to starving.

_Did I really miss this, four months ago?_

John groans and pounds his fist silently on his knee until the joint protests. There’s no way he would have missed this if he’d actively been looking, is there? When John moved in, Sherlock had been eating. In fits and starts, yes, and hardly ever on a case, but he’d been eating. John cooked meals for him on countless occasions and he ate them.

_Bulimia?_

Not bulimia. John would have noticed Sherlock throwing up after every meal. He couldn’t have missed that.

_You didn’t notice the walking skeleton in your own house, Doctor Watson. Don’t flatter yourself._

Sherlock’s not the type for bulimia, anyway. It would be too much effort. Why eat if you’re only going to bring it back up again later? Pointless. Dull. John knows that much. The other way is much more his style. He has the self-control for it.

_What is this for, Sherlock? A cry for help? To who? And you don’t like help, anyway, except if it’s someone to make a cup of tea for you and hand you your own phone. You barely tolerate me being here half the time. A plea for attention? More likely, but you get your attention by being clever, by outsmarting everyone in the room. People may not like you, but they don’t half pay you attention. Is this left over from childhood? Should I ask Mycroft?_

Despite the seriousness of the situation, John snorts quietly. He can just picture Sherlock’s face if he went to Mycroft to ask about Sherlock’s personal life. That is not the way to get back into his friend’s good books, which he has doubtless been erased from by this evening’s revelations.

His stomach has thankfully stopped churning but his brain seems to have taken up the action instead.

John sits on the landing all night, staring at the bathroom door.

***

At thirteen minutes past six in the morning, the bolt snaps back and a hand appears through the tiniest of cracks between the door and the jam.

‘Clothes,’ a voice says quietly.

John, sleep deprived and stiff, recognises the command in the tone.

‘Back in a minute,’ he says, voice a little rough from all the sleep he hasn’t had.

When John reappears back on the landing two minutes later, the hand has not changed position. It is, however, trembling slightly. John has thought it through and argued with himself all night, and he’s just going to act normally.

‘Here you go,’ he says lightly, draping all five t-shirts and Sherlock’s dressing gown over the outstretched hand. ‘Breakfast?’

‘No thank you,’ the hand withdraws and the door shuts with a snap.

John knows a dismissal when he sees one. He goes downstairs and makes breakfast. He makes an extra slice of toast, but Sherlock does not appear.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes them a week to talk about it. The intervening seven days are seven of the most uncomfortable days of John’s life. They barely speak. Well, John speaks to Sherlock occasionally but never gets a reply. He’s lucky if Sherlock acknowledges with a twitch of his head that he’s even heard anything.

Sherlock spends the week lying on the sofa. On the second day he texts Lestrade. John doesn’t know what the text says but the would-be kidnapper, also responsible for several counts of breaking and entering, is apprehended before Sherlock’s client’s son can come to any harm.

All week, John brings Sherlock a mug of tea every time he makes one for himself. When he collects them an hour or two later, they’re usually still full. Once or twice every day a couple of sips have been taken, enough to noticeably lower the level of liquid in the mug. It’s not enough to keep Sherlock’s body functioning properly.

On several evenings, they dance around the subject as much as they can do without actually speaking. On each of these occasions, John eats dinner alone in the kitchen before doing the washing up and then dithering around in the kitchen doing absolutely nothing of any use for at least ten minutes. 

Sherlock wishes that he wouldn’t. He knows exactly what’s going on and he hopes that John isn’t stupid enough to think that he’s fooling Sherlock. As it turns out, John isn’t, because on each of these evenings when John appears in the doorway between kitchen and living room and is met with Sherlock’s stony gaze before he can set foot in the room or open his mouth, he makes a hasty tactical retreat. There’s something to be said for military training, after all, even if John’s medical training seems to have rather missed out the section which states that throwing up at the sight of someone is not likely to make them open up to you.

On the seventh day, something changes. John has caught on to what he’s telling Sherlock by his actions and he eats much more slowly than usual and does the washing up with much more purpose.

Of course, Sherlock knows exactly what’s going on. He has time to make a break for it, but he doesn’t have the energy.

As soon as John is finished in the kitchen, he appears in the doorway. Sherlock looks up and deploys his usual stare, but John is not to be deterred today. He comes right in and sits down in his chair, which has remained unoccupied all week.

‘Sherlock,’ John begins, with determination.

Sherlock feigns an interest in the patterns in the plaster above his head.

‘Sherlock,’ John says again.

Sherlock begins to devise experiments as to the best method of inducing cracks in this particular kind of ceiling plaster.

‘Sherlock.’

Sherlock considers obtaining some hydrochloric acid. He could nick some from Bart’s without too much difficulty.

‘Sherlock.’

Hydrofluoric acid is, of course, much more difficult to acquire and much more dangerous. It’s possibly even too dangerous for him to justify bringing it into the flat. He’ll have to mull that one over for a bit.

‘Sherlock, I know you can hear me.’

Sherlock hums to himself under his breath, just loud enough for John to be able to hear. He would play his violin instead, but that’s resting on his chair and he’s on the sofa and so his chair is altogether too far away. He could ask John to get it, but that would rather defeat the object of this charade. He could get it himself, but he doesn’t feel like getting up and anyway he has a rather odd feeling that his legs wouldn’t be too pleased about being asked to do a little bit of light work. 

‘Sherlock, stop being a child.’

Sherlock hums a little louder. It’s now loud enough to be annoying.

‘Stop humming.’

‘Pass me my violin then.’

_Damn it, John._

‘Sherlock, please,’ John sighs. ‘We need to talk about this.’

There’s no point in continuing this now that he’s spoken.

‘No we don’t,’ Sherlock says loftily. ‘There is nothing to discuss.’

‘Apart from you trying to kill yourself?’ John says mildly. ‘No, nothing.’

Angry, Sherlock swings his legs off the sofa and sits up rapidly. His head spins. He tries not to show it.

‘Kill myself?’ he says, eyebrows raised. _Stop spinning, room, stop spinning._ ‘What on earth gives you that idea?’

Unfortunately, John’s no doubt fascinating answer is cut off as Sherlock falls rather dramatically to the floor. John is at his side in seconds.

_Damn it, Sherlock._

‘Are you okay?’ John kneels by Sherlock’s side and puts a tentative hand on his back. ‘Talk to me, Sherlock, or I’m going to call an ambulance.’

Sherlock says nothing. He cannot.

John steps his threats up a notch.

‘I’ll call Mycroft,’ he says.

‘I’m okay,’ Sherlock stammers out desperately. ‘I’m okay.’

‘Good, although you’re clearly not,’ John rubs little circles on Sherlock’s back. He has to stop himself from recoiling in horror – he could count and name every single one of Sherlock’s vertebrae. ‘Are you ready to get back on the sofa?’

Sherlock nods with determination. Of course he is. Stupid question. Dull.

‘Come on then,’ John says kindly. The arm around Sherlock’s back tightens, but gently, and his other hand lightly grips Sherlock’s upper arm.

Sherlock is all but lifted on to the sofa and he would protest but his legs feel quite jelly-like and his head is still spinning, so he saves his energy.

‘Lie down,’ John encourages him. ‘Come on, as you were before. Swing your legs up, that’s it.’

John ends up swinging his legs up for him, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to care. When he’s got Sherlock all arranged, John looks down at him from where he’s crouching by his head.

‘Can I perch somewhere on here, or shall I go back to my chair?’ John asks.

‘You can perch,’ Sherlock says. At least, he tries to. He’s not sure exactly what happens but the words seem to get a bit mangled on their brief journey from his Broca’s area to his mouth. John seems to understand well enough, though.

‘Cheers,’ he says, standing up and perching on the arm of the sofa next to Sherlock’s head. 

Sherlock doesn’t like it. He can feel John, but he can’t see him. He reaches up one arm, which seems to take a lot more effort than normal, and tugs at John’s jeans.

‘What?’ John peers down at him.

Sherlock slides a little further along the sofa and lifts his head up slightly. In the time that Sherlock’s last stood up his body seems to have increased its energy demands by about five fold, because suddenly holding his head seems like a lot more trouble than it’s worth. Just before his head flops down of its own accord, John slides a hand underneath at the base of his skull and holds his head up. It’s helpful. And surprisingly nice. He tugs at John’s jeans again. His arm protests. He ignores it.

‘Oh, I can sit down there?’ John catches on. ‘Thanks.’

He slides sideways off the arm of the sofa and sits down where Sherlock’s head was minutes ago.

‘Want to use me as a pillow?’

Sherlock does. He nods. John’s leg is warm through his jeans. Sherlock frowns. The difference between the body temperatures of two human beings in the same environment should not be that marked. Is John particularly warm blooded? Not that Sherlock has noticed before, and there have been numerous incidental moments of contact between them. Hmm.

John doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hand. He has awkwardly extracted it from under Sherlock’s head and now it is bouncing on his leg in a most annoying manner. Sherlock’s arm, still outstretched behind him since it seemed like too much bother to move it, grabs at the air trying to find John’s arm. John places it in his grip without a word and Sherlock, equally silently, places John’s hand back on his head, on the top this time. That’s better.

John twists his fingers through Sherlock’s hair a little.

‘Are you okay down there?’ he asks eventually. 

Sherlock nods. He is. He feels better than he’s felt in days.

‘Sherlock, I want to talk to you,’ John says quietly. ‘And I want you to promise me that you won’t get in a sulk or go off in a huff, hmm?’

Sherlock scowls. He considers. Then he nods.

‘If I ask you some questions will you answer?’

Sherlock considers again. 

_John? Or my doctor? Probably both. Does it matter? Do your worst, John._

He nods.

‘Have you drunk anything today?’ John starts.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says, after a moment’s thought.

‘Water?’

‘Yes.’

‘This afternoon?’

‘No.’

‘Morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you touch any of the tea that I’ve brought you since then?’

‘No.’

‘Did you touch any of the tea that I brought you yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘Did you drink any water yesterday?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

A pause.

‘A glass?’

‘No.’

‘Half a glass?’

‘Yes.’

John’s fingers tighten briefly in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock doesn’t like it.

‘And you’ve had nothing today since this morning? Before I got up, I assume.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, you haven’t had anything?’

‘Yes.’

John is quiet for a moment.

‘This conversation is making me thirsty, actually. I could do with a drink now. Would you like one?’

Sherlock thinks. He flicks his tongue out to touch his lips. Dry and chapped. He swallows experimentally. His throat hurts. He rubs his tongue over the roof of his mouth. Dry, dry, dry.

‘Yes.’

‘Water?’

‘Yes.’

John’s thighs tense as he starts to get up, but before he actually moves he puts his hand behind Sherlock’s head and gently lifts. He slides out from underneath Sherlock and puts his head carefully back on the sofa.

‘Do you trust me, Sherlock?’

Another pause.

‘Yes.’


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock drinks half a glass of water. Now that he’s started, he would drink more, but John stops him.

‘Don’t overwhelm yourself,’ he says. ‘You’ll make yourself dizzy.’

Sherlock would say that he’s already dizzy, but that’s too much effort. His mouth is better employed elsewhere.

When he’s done, John helps him to lie down again and puts Sherlock’s head back in his lap without asking. His hand ends up on Sherlock’s head again. John’s holding his mug of tea in the other hand and Sherlock can smell it. His stomach makes an interested noise. His brain recoils at the idea.

They stay in silence for a while. John drinks his tea while his hand curls absentmindedly through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock likes it. He doesn’t say anything.

‘When did you last sleep?’ John asks suddenly.

Sherlock says nothing.

‘Oh,’ John says quickly. ‘Sorry. Did you sleep last night?’

‘No.’

‘The night before?’

Sherlock waggles his head around slightly. It’s lucky that his head is in contact with John because he doesn’t feel like moving enough for the waggling to be visible. John can feel it, though.

‘You’re not sure?’

‘No.’

‘You think you did?’

‘No.’

‘You did a little bit?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here, on the sofa?’

‘Yes.’

‘That can’t have been very comfy.’

There’s another pause. Sherlock wonders where all this is headed. He’s surprised at the subject that John has thus far avoided. Surely he’d have brought it up by now.

‘Are you going to sleep tonight?’

Sherlock’s head waggles.

‘Not sure?’

A nod.

‘How about actually going to bed then?’

Another waggle.

‘You haven’t got a case on, have you?’

A shake.

‘Didn’t think so. Now don’t take this personally, Sherlock, but have you had a shower recently?’

A waggle.

‘Hmm. I bet you feel quite yucky now, don’t you?’

A half-hearted waggle.

‘You must do. I know what it’s like. In Afghanistan sometimes we couldn’t shower for a good few days, if the water went off or something, and you end up feeling disgusting. You’d sleep much better if you had a shower and got some fresh pyjamas and went to bed. What do you think, hmm?’

A shrug.

‘Come on, Sherlock, for me,’ John’s tone is lightly teasing, but only slightly.

Sherlock lets his head waggle, but more up and down than side to side.

‘Is that a yes?’

A nod. Once up and once down, but a nod all the same.

‘Excellent,’ John falls into silence. He finishes his tea and places the mug on the floor. His other hand joins the first on Sherlock’s head.

They sit like this for a long time. Sherlock’s brain is trying to drift off to sleep but he bullies it into staying awake. John’s right. A shower and bed sounds much better than a sleep on the sofa, only to wake up in the early hours with his stomach cramping. Again.

Eventually, Sherlock starts to wriggle. John looks down. Sherlock’s face is pale and pinched but his eyes are calm and that’s all John can really ask for at the moment.

‘Shower?’

‘Yes.’

John performs the same manoeuvre as before and eases himself off the sofa. He stands there, looking a little unsure.

‘Want a hand up?’ he asks cautiously.

Sherlock thinks. Then he surprises himself and nods. John tugs Sherlock’s legs gently off the sofa and sets his feet on the floor, before holding out his hands to Sherlock. Sherlock hesitantly grasps them and finds himself being pulled to his feet. He sways a bit. Apart from his brief excursion to the floor earlier, he hasn’t left the sofa in well over twelve hours. It’s not like he’s putting anything in his body to empty out again.

‘Shall I dig you out some pyjamas?’ John offers. Sherlock sees through John’s suggestion as what it is, an excuse to accompany him to the bathroom, but he doesn’t protest. He feels oddly warm at John’s words, despite the coldness that he is beginning to become aware of in his limbs. He nods. ‘I’ll bring them into the bathroom, then.’

John heads off towards the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to make his own way. He can do this. The room isn’t really spinning, he knows that. Gravity, or whatever ridiculous phenomenon that John has previously tried to teach him about, has not altered. One foot in foot of the other. Left foot, right foot, left foot.

He staggers. John is back in an instant. He doesn’t say a word, just grips his arm and helps him to the bathroom.

‘Sit,’ he says, pointing at the closed lid of the toilet. ‘I’ll be back.’

John leaves. Sherlock hears him fiddling with the thermostat control just outside the door. The radiator on the opposite wall rumbles into life. When John reappears, he is carrying clean pyjamas and an extra t-shirt. He also has one of Sherlock’s other dressing gowns and one of his own jumpers.

‘Shall I dig out some clean underwear?’ John asks. ‘I didn’t like to without asking.’

Sherlock nods hazily. The room is slightly fuzzy and his mouth tastes bizarre. Three minutes later, John is back again. He is looking unsure.

‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Sherlock,’ he starts slowly, his hands twisting and turning as he speaks.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock interrupts him. He is surprised at how quiet his voice is.

‘What?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says again. He’s tired.

‘I’ll stay then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are these pyjamas okay to get wet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent.’

John isn’t shy about this. He’s ex-military, of course, so he doesn’t hesitate as he strips down to his t-shirt and underwear and steps into the bath to turn the shower on. He leaves it to heat up and steps out again to spread Sherlock’s towel and all of his clean clothes over the slowly heating radiator. Sherlock is still hunched over on the lid of the toilet.

‘Socks off?’ John suggests. Sherlock nods. If John notices that Sherlock’s feet are like blocks of ice, he doesn’t say anything.

John helps Sherlock out of his dressing gown too, while Sherlock stands and sways slightly.

‘Shower should be ready now,’ John says, sticking his hand under to check. ‘Yep. In you go.’

Sherlock’s legs are reluctant to step up and over the edge of the bath, but John holds him steady and he forces them to work.

Under the water, Sherlock realises how cold he was. John swings in behind him and forces him under the spray properly. He is instantly drenched and his pyjamas cling to him so that he may as well have taken them off. But he can pretend that John can’t see what’s hiding under all his layers. John is not observant. He can pretend.

All the while, John keeps at least one hand on Sherlock, ready to catch him if he falls. Sherlock feels like he might fall but he won’t, he won’t. It’s a relief when John tells him to kneel so he can wash his hair, because John’s not straining his neck and wrenching his shoulder just because Sherlock’s a lanky bastard.

When they’re done, Sherlock feels simultaneously much better and much worse. John was right, he was feeling yucky before, but now he is absolutely exhausted. After looking at Sherlock for permission, John quickly and efficiently strips Sherlock before wrapping him up in two towels and rubbing him dry. By the time John has stuffed him into his pyjamas, an extra t-shirt, John’s jumper and the thickest dressing gown he owns, Sherlock is ready to collapse. John, still dripping absolutely everywhere except on Sherlock, gently pushes his friend along the corridor and into his bedroom. Here, he helps Sherlock onto the bed and pulls two pairs of socks onto his feet.

‘Back in a second,’ John promises, standing up and dripping some more.

Sherlock hears him pounding up the stairs and slamming things around in his room. He’s back, dressed hastily in pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown and with his hair sticking up all over the place, before Sherlock has really had time to properly contemplate lying down on top of the duvet and falling asleep.

‘Feeling better?’ John asks, standing in the doorway.

Sherlock nods slowly. He really is, or he would be, if his eyes would focus properly and the room would stop this silly spinning. Then John is by his side, slowly, carefully, gently helping him up and peeling back the duvet before easing Sherlock back onto the bed. He swings Sherlock’s legs up for him and lets him collapse back onto the pillows with a little more control than Sherlock might have had if he was attempting this alone. John tugs the duvet up.

‘Comfortable?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock’s voice is barely there.

John, who has perched on the edge of the bed, eases himself up and pads out of the room. He’s back a minute and a half later with a glass.

‘Brought you some water, in case you’re thirsty in the night,’ he says casually. ‘I think I’ll be off to bed now. I’ve got the day off tomorrow and I don’t want to waste it lying in bed because I’m too tired to get up.’

_John’s subtle way of reminding me that he’ll be at home tomorrow._

‘Night, Sherlock. Sleep well.’


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, probably due to the fourteen hours of sleep he’s had, Sherlock is feeling better enough to deny that anything is wrong. He appears in the kitchen at midday, still clad in the multitude of clothes John dressed him in the previous evening. Despite this, John looks at him and all he can see is the skeleton he saw last night.

‘Morning John,’ Sherlock says breezily. He’s walking fine this morning, but the effect is rather spoilt by the faint trembling of his limbs. You have to look hard to notice. John notices.

‘Sherlock,’ John says warily. His friend isn’t well enough to be out of bed.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Sherlock enquires, leaning nonchalantly against the fridge. John is not fooled. Sherlock is exuding casualness but he cannot stand up unsupported for long.

‘Very well, thank you,’ John lies. He spent all night tossing and turning, unable to get his friend’s frail body out of his mind’s eye. ‘You?’

‘Sufficiently,’ Sherlock sniffs. ‘Do you know, John, I think I must have been slightly delirious yesterday, from lack of sleep you understand. The evening is all a bit of a blur. I think you’d better disregard anything I might’ve said to you in that time.’

John blinks, holds his breath and counts to ten. Two can play at this game.

‘Of course,’ he says when he resurfaces. ‘You did look pretty out of it. Want a cup of tea?’

‘No thank you,’ Sherlock says smoothly. ‘Some of us haven’t got endless time to sit around doing nothing you know, John. I’ve got work to do.’

‘You said you didn’t have a case,’ John’s eyes narrow.

‘Did I?’ Sherlock looks taken aback, and for a second John wonders how much of the previous evening his friend really does remember. Sherlock is such a fantastic actor and John hasn’t yet learnt to tell every time he’s faking, but today the tension around his eyes gives him away. Oh yes, Sherlock remembers last night. ‘Well, like I said, delirious. I’ll be fine for days now after that night’s sleep. You don’t have work today?’

‘Day off,’ John says quietly. Of course Sherlock knows that already.

‘It’s alright for some,’ Sherlock says. ‘I’ll be in the living room. Don’t disturb me. Thinking.’

With that, he pushes himself of the fridge and strides through into the living room, shutting the doors behind him with a crash. John gently smacks his forehead onto the table and leaves it there. So this is how it’s going to be. John had wondered.

He shuts his eyes to try and think but has to open them again. John cannot stand one more second of that image of Sherlock’s body. He didn’t throw up this time because he was prepared for it, but the sight was even worse than before. Last week, John got a mere glimpse before he vomited and Sherlock fled, but yesterday evening he dressed Sherlock and was forced to stare at his body with morbid fascination, unable to avert his eyes. If John had thought Sherlock’s ribs were prominent, his hip bones proved to be even worse. No fat on his upper arms, no fat on his legs, and seeing his vertebrae sticking out like that was far worse than feeling them through Sherlock’s clothes. The man is a walking skeleton.

John knows that there are psychological aspects on any eating disorder, but he doesn’t know how Sherlock expects to pretend that this is not happening. He’s tried looking online, searching website’s designed to help family and friends of those with food issues, but mostly he found the frantic mothers of preteen and teenage girls wondering where they’d gone wrong. It wasn’t helpful.

On the pretext of collecting Sherlock’s washing – because Sherlock will know where he’s been – John ventures down the corridor to inspect the glass of water he took to Sherlock last night. It’s empty, but John knows instantly that Sherlock’s just poured it away. Because he lives with Sherlock Holmes, he picks up the glass and holds it up to the window. There is a faint tide mark indicating where the level of the water has been all night. It’s exactly at the level John filled it to.

He collects Sherlock’s washing as his alibi, and because he doesn’t have anything better to do today so why not do some housework?

Unfortunately, doing the laundry, as well as cleaning the kitchen and both the bathrooms, proves to be ineffective at taking his mind off just what Sherlock is doing to his body. John hasn’t seen him eat a morsel since well before the case of the kidnapping burglar began, and that was three days before their chase down at the docks, so eleven days ago now. Of course, there are plenty of hours in the day when John is not with Sherlock and Sherlock has plenty of opportunities to eat then, which he must be doing or he’d be in a much direr situation. It can’t be much, though. A dry cracker or two at the most, as John would notice anything else. There’s dehydration, too. At most, Sherlock is drinking a glass of water a day. How his brain is still functioning, John does not know.

This line of thought has John scrambling towards the living room. He hasn’t heard a peep out of Sherlock for hours. When he peers around the door, Sherlock is motionless on the sofa. This isn’t exactly unusual, but John’s heart is pounding.

Deciding that sneakiness is a wasted effort around Sherlock Holmes, John makes no attempt to hide his entry into the room. Once next to the sofa, he peers down into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his chest is only moving very slightly. At least it is moving.

‘Sherlock?’

The lack of reply is not uncommon when Sherlock is like this. John puts his hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder. He can feel his collar bone far too prominently.

‘Sherlock?’

Sherlock doesn’t stir. John frowns. Very deliberately, he walks across the room and picks up Sherlock’s violin. There is no response from the sofa. John practically launches the violin through the window in his haste to get back to Sherlock’s side.

‘Sherlock, can you hear me? This isn’t funny now. Sherlock!’

Crouching down, he taps the side of Sherlock’s face gently, before trying more persistently. Nothing. John pulls out the penlight that he keeps in his shirt pocket out of habit and quickly lifts one of Sherlock’s eyelids. His eyes have sunk right into his face. John flicks the penlight on and shines it into the exposed eye. He watches the pupil dilate rapidly and tries to will a reaction out of his friend. Suddenly, Sherlock shudders into life.

‘John?’ he stammers, blinking quickly.

John heaves a great sigh of relief and rocks back on his heels. This is ridiculous. Enough is enough. He doesn’t care how angry it makes Sherlock; he’s not having this anymore.

‘How much of that water did you drink, Sherlock?’ John looks sternly at him.

Sherlock is still blinking.

‘What?’ he says, shaking his head experimentally.

‘The water, Sherlock,’ John says. ‘The water that I brought you last night when you went to bed, remember?’

Sherlock is recovering fast, as only he can.

‘Like I said, John,’ he says quickly. ‘I don’t really remember much of last night. I would’ve expected even you to be able to remember that I told you that.’

‘No, Sherlock,’ John snaps. He cannot be patient any longer. This is wrong, all wrong, but he can’t have Sherlock fainting and collapsing all around the flat. ‘You remember last night perfectly. As do I. Who are you trying to kid?’

Sherlock freezes. The tension is back around his eyes, his horrible, sunken eyes.

‘You must be mistaken,’ he begins, but John holds his hand up.

‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘I’m not. And you know I’m not. Stop this now.’

‘I have to say, I don’t think much of your bedside manner, doctor,’ Sherlock says sneeringly. ‘You must have been a right charmer out in Afghanistan. All the wounded squaddies wanted you to stitch them up, did they? Just for all the charm and pleasantness that you exude, of course.’

John’s shoulders drop. Sherlock knows that’s a low blow, but he can’t blame the man. John has him trapped, physically and mentally.

‘Sherlock, please,’ he knows that pleading has very little chance of working, but what else does he have left? ‘You know I’m right. Will you be sensible about this please? I can’t do this anymore.’

Sherlock is as merciless as ever, even weak and dehydrated.

‘Can’t do what, John?’ he scoffs. ‘I didn’t realise everything was about you. My mistake, evidently. Oh no, I don’t make mistakes! You must be wrong, then.’

‘I’m not, Sherlock,’ John says steadily, the fight draining out of him. He’s so tired. ‘And you know I’m not.’

‘I’m not listening to this rubbish for another second,’ Sherlock announces. ‘I don’t know what erroneous conclusion you’ve reached in your silly little brain but I’m not reducing my own cognitive ability by talking to you any longer. Out of my way.’

John stands up calmly and folds his arms.

‘Make me,’ he says.

Sherlock makes it up off the sofa. His legs are trembling uncontrollably but he makes it. John takes one step backwards towards the door and Sherlock follows him. At least, he tried to. John takes another step back, not breaking eye contact with his friend. Sherlock is still next to sofa, his feet seemingly rooted to the floor. John sees the panic flit across his face and consequentially retraces his steps in time to catch Sherlock when he staggers and pitches forwards.

‘I mean it,’ he says in a low voice, easing Sherlock back onto the sofa. ‘And I trust I’ve just made my point. You’re going to talk to me or, so help me, I’m phoning Mycroft.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just thought I probably ought to say that I have no personal experience with eating disorders (thankfully) so I shall humbly apologise if anyone _does_ and feels I am sadly misrepresenting the issue. I hope I'm not, as I have a fairly sound knowledge of it from a medical and biological point of view, but I apologise if people disagree and I can only hope that I don't upset anyone. Do please feel free to let me know!


	6. Chapter 6

‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ Sherlock insists. His voice is thin and much higher than usual.

‘You’re very ill, Sherlock,’ John says gently. They’ve taken up their positions from the previous evening again, except this time Sherlock’s feet, instead of his head, are in John’s lap.

‘Maybe I’ve got a cold,’ Sherlock says uncertainly.

‘No, Sherlock,’ John is patient. ‘You’re much more ill than that. Have you looked in the mirror recently?’

‘No I haven’t,’ Sherlock admits all in a rush. ‘Maybe it’s flu.’

‘It’s not flu,’ John says.

‘Oh, what do you know?’ Sherlock snaps. ‘It’s flu. It’s just flu.’

‘Okay,’ John whispers. ‘It’s flu. Why don’t you have a rest on the sofa and I’ll get you some medicine?’

‘I don’t need any medicine,’ Sherlock says firmly. ‘I’ll just lie here and get better.’

‘You’d feel better if you had some medicine,’ John says.

‘No,’ says Sherlock. ‘I’m fine. It’s just flu.’

They sit in silence for a long while. Sherlock stares up at the ceiling and John stares at Sherlock, ready to shake him the minute his eyes drop and he becomes the slightest bit unresponsive.

‘Sherlock,’ John says, after over half an hour of silence. He has to do this, he has to. ‘Sherlock, I don’t think it’s flu. You’re too ill for it to be flu.’

_I don’t know how to deal with this._

Sherlock frowns.

‘It must be,’ he says. ‘What else could it be?’

It’s John’s turn to frown. He decides to play along.

‘Erm, okay. Chickenpox?’

‘No rash.’

‘The rash doesn’t appear straight away.’

‘I had it when I was six.’

‘Oh, right. How about malaria?’

‘Not found in England since the 1800s. And I haven’t been to any of the countries where the _Anopheles_ mosquito is commonly found in the past few months.’

‘Well I don’t know what you get up to half the time. Okay, not malaria. Gastroenteritis?’

‘No vomiting.’

‘Oh, of course not. Sorry.’

‘No other ideas? I’m disappointed, doctor.’

‘Give me a minute. You could at least give me a list of your symptoms. That might help me to narrow it down a bit instead of plucking diseases out of mid-air.’

Sherlock hesitates for the first time.

‘Headache,’ he starts. ‘Dizziness, cold extremities, joint pain, muscle weakness, general fatigue.’

‘Anaemia?’ John suggests promptly.

‘I did a full blood count, an erythrocyte count and an absolute leucocyte count on myself two weeks ago.’

‘Of course you did. Diabetes?’

‘No excessive urination.’

‘Raynaud’s?’

‘That would only explain the cold extremities. And I would know by now if I had that.’

‘Food poisoning?’

Sherlock flinches minutely but recovers quickly. John only notices because they’re in direct contact.

‘No vomiting, as I quite clearly said before.’

‘Hyperthyroidism?’

Sherlock considers. John pauses and considers too, rapidly coming to the conclusion that he might just have accidently had the beginnings of a good idea. The cold extremities don’t fit, but…

‘Sounds more likely,’ Sherlock says eventually. ‘Maybe you are a good doctor after all.’

‘Thank you,’ John says graciously. 

‘Do you think that might be it?’ Sherlock asks, and John pauses for a minute. Could this really work?

‘It could be,’ John says carefully. ‘It does fit your symptoms.’

‘Give me a comprehensive list,’ Sherlock commands him. If nothing else, this conversation appears to have woken him up a bit.

‘Erm, right,’ John nods. ‘Fatigue, irritability, nausea and vomiting, muscle pain and weakness, tachycardia, dizziness and fainting, hand tremors, dyspnoea,’ he pauses. ‘Weight loss.’

Sherlock’s head is on one side and he appears not to notice the last item. He does, of course.

‘I think I might have this,’ he says.

‘A lot of the symptoms do fit,’ John agrees. It’s not lying. ‘I’d need to see you down at the surgery with all my stuff to be sure, but if it is hyperthyroidism then we need to start what treatment we can straight away. It can be a very dangerous condition.’

‘I know that,’ Sherlock says, a bit too eagerly.

John tries not to look at him too pityingly. Sherlock’s near obsessive enthusiasm at directing his attention away from what is really going on almost makes him cry. It means that Sherlock knows something is wrong, even if he’s not ready to admit it to John. He might not even have admitted it to himself, John can’t tell, but it’s looking increasingly less likely as this conversation progresses.

‘So you want to start whatever treatment we can now?’ John checks, being careful not to sound too keen himself.

_This really could work…_

‘What can you do?’ Sherlock wants to know.

John pretends to consider it. He has to phrase this just right. If he gets this close and then fails… He can’t think about it. It’s a truly terrible idea and no doubt completely unethical for a medical professional, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

‘Well,’ he says carefully. ‘There’s not really much I can do right now to be honest, as most of the treatment involves drugs and prescriptions, but there is something we could try.’

‘What is it?’ Sherlock demands. John feels desperately sorry for him. Is Sherlock trying to fool John or himself? Probably both. Almost definitely both.

John takes a deep breath, trying to do so without Sherlock noticing, which is almost impossible. The next bit is the crucial bit.

‘One of the big problems is weight loss,’ he says, trying to sound as casual and off-hand as possible. Sherlock’s eyes narrow instantly. ‘It doesn’t happen straight away, so if you’ve only just developed it then this won’t have affected you yet, but it is a problem.’ He pauses, pretending to think hard. _Please, Sherlock._ ‘I think the best course of action for the moment would be to make sure you eat properly this weekend, just in case. I know you can go for several days without eating, but try not to make it this weekend, hmm? You don’t want to exacerbate a problem like hyperthyroidism.’

John sneaks a glance at Sherlock, his heart pounding. If he can just get some food into Sherlock over the weekend, he can figure out how to tackle the real problem in the meantime. A few days of breathing space are all he needs, and if he can stop Sherlock from fainting then he can have some time to think and, most importantly, Sherlock’s body can get some much needed nourishment. John can then stop worrying about him collapsing all over the place. Well, he can worry less than he is now.

Sherlock still has not said a word.

‘Sherlock?’ John prompts him tentatively, trying not to sound too desperate. ‘What do you think? This is really important.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Sherlock says slowly. His mind is clearly racing, trying to work at full speed on a lack of fuel. ‘The thing is,’ he blurts out. Evidently some plan has just sprung fully formed into his head, as plans are always keen to do if you’re Sherlock Holmes. ‘I meant to tell you, actually. I spilt some rather nasty chemicals in the kitchen yesterday while you were out. I cleared everything up, of course, but maybe it would be a good idea if we didn’t use the kitchen for a few days, just in case.’

‘I cooked in that kitchen yesterday evening,’ John pretends to be cross. He knows Sherlock is lying. Hopefully, Sherlock can’t tell that he’s pretending too.

‘I meant to tell you,’ Sherlock shrugs. ‘And you’re still alive, aren’t you? It should be fine. But seeing as I was planning on not eating this weekend, I don’t think it will make much of a difference whether I do or not.’

‘I thought you wanted to get better,’ John reminds him.

_Please Sherlock, come on, help me out here. I’m lying through my teeth for you and it’s going against everything I know as a doctor. The least you can do is believe me._

‘Hmm,’ says Sherlock. ‘The experiment has really put me off. I’ll consider it on Monday. Or perhaps Tuesday.’

It is only by a supreme act of will that John stops himself from screaming out loud. Monday is too late. Sherlock needs food, or a drip, before Monday and calling an ambulance on him will lead to a psych team being brought in to deal with him. Sherlock will not forgive him for that. Nor will he forgive John for contacting Mycroft for assistance.

‘So you don’t want to eat because of the experiment you spilt?’ John checks.

‘Clearly,’ Sherlock nods. He’s trying not to, but he looks slightly worried, as if he doesn’t think anyone with a modicum of intelligence could possible fall for this. John is happy to sacrifice Sherlock’s already dubious ideas about his intelligence on this particular altar.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I can sort that out. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.’

‘Deal with what?’ Sherlock doesn’t look alarmed, but he would do if he were letting himself.

‘The experiment/food problem,’ John says breezily. ‘No worries.’

‘Okay,’ Sherlock says slowly. For a second, a look of panic flashes across his face, but it soon vanishes. The only sign left is the anxious gnawing of his lower lip. John doesn’t think this is a conscious action.

‘And you’ll eat then?’ John asks. He doesn’t want to push, but he has to make himself clear.

‘Perhaps,’ Sherlock says. His eyes are giving him away. The alarm is showing. John knows that this is as good an answer as he’ll get this evening. Neither of them is going to give another inch on this.

Their eyes meet for the first time in several minutes. Sherlock’s gaze is unfathomable again. This is a dangerous game they’re playing and they both know it. John doesn’t know the rules and he doesn’t really know quite who or what he’s playing against. He doesn’t even know if Sherlock’s actually playing, or if Sherlock knows that John’s playing, or if they’re both actually on the same page but pretending not to be. He doesn’t know what comes next but he does know one thing. He knows what the forfeit is – it’s Sherlock’s health and quite possibly Sherlock’s life, and he’s not prepared to gamble with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medical details are all correct in this chapter, but it goes without saying that this is not exactly the best demonstration of John's doubtlessly otherwise excellent doctoring technique!


	7. Chapter 7

John makes a start on his promised ‘dealing with it’ early the next morning. It’s Saturday, so he’s not working, and he spends a while out of the flat. He tells Mrs Hudson that Sherlock has flu and asks her to keep an eye on him. He can drink water, he tells her, but no eating until John says so. Sherlock looks at John with wide eyes as he leaves the flat. He is out all morning and doesn’t come home until past lunchtime.

‘Thanks Mrs H,’ he says, entering the flat and seeing Mrs Hudson perched in his chair, chattering away to Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t appear to be listening but at least his eyes are open. ‘How’s Sherlock?’

‘Oh, he’s doing alright, aren’t you dear?’ Mrs Hudson smiles fondly. ‘It’s a horrible thing though, flu. You haven’t been yourself, have you Sherlock?’

‘He’ll be alright when he’s better,’ John says firmly. ‘Back to his old self in no time, eh? Thank you for your help, Mrs Hudson.’

‘That’s an awful lot of shopping you’ve got there, John dear,’ Mrs Hudson says, standing up and peering around him at the pile of bags and boxes situated on and around the kitchen table. ‘You’ve been busy.’

‘Just stuff for the flat,’ John says airily. ‘And I’ve got some medicine and things for Sherlock.’

Sherlock looks around at this and blinks at John.

‘There you go, Sherlock,’ Mrs Hudson smiles again. ‘You’ll be right as rain no time at all. I’ll be downstairs if you need me, dears.’

Neither Sherlock nor John speaks until they hear Mrs Hudson’s door shut downstairs.

‘Want to see what I’ve got?’ John offers.

‘You should probably put the food away first,’ Sherlock says quietly. He can’t quite manage nonchalance.

John unpacks the food shopping quickly and efficiently. He’s got lots of crackers and cereal and grapes which he puts in the cupboard he cleared out especially before he left.

‘Done,’ he announces.

Shuffling commences in the living room, and John appears in the doorway to see Sherlock levering himself unsteadily off the sofa.

‘Want a– ?’ 

‘No.’

‘Okay.’

It takes a while but Sherlock makes it to the kitchen. John guides him to a chair without touching him and he sits down at the table.

‘Share with me your amazing purchases then,’ Sherlock sighs. John grins. Sherlock is still in there. John’s just got to unlock him, somehow.

‘Right,’ John says briskly. ‘Quite a bit of the stuff I’ve got is presents for you, so you’d better not whinge about it.’

‘I’ll reserve judgement until I’ve seen,’ Sherlock pouts slightly at the idea that he whinges.

‘Of course,’ John smiles. He pulls a box out of a plastic bag with a flourish. Sherlock stares.

‘I think we’ve already got a kettle, John,’ he says eventually.

‘Ah,’ John says triumphantly. ‘But this is your kettle. This is an experiment kettle.’ He reaches into another bag and pulls out a pack of post-it notes and a fat marker pen. ‘Choose a colour.’

‘What?’ Sherlock frowns.

‘A colour,’ John says, brandishing the post-it notes enthusiastically. ‘We need a food colour and an experiment colour. It’s your choice.’

‘I don’t really think it matters,’ Sherlock says stiffly.

‘Well if it doesn’t matter, just choose one,’ John will not be deterred. ‘Come on, Sherlock.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re doing,’ Sherlock mutters petulantly. ‘I’m not a child. I am perfectly capable of distinguishing between food and bits of cadaver and chemical. This is not necessary.’

‘Yes it is,’ John says quietly. ‘We’re separating food and experiments and this is the most simple and obvious way to do it. I’m no psychologist but this is a good place to start. Humour me and pick a colour, go on.’

Sherlock looks at him sharply, and John realises belatedly that he probably shouldn’t have mentioned psychologists. This game of theirs is still precariously balanced and John can only see half of the pieces, if that. He certainly can’t see any of Sherlock’s pieces, and maybe not all of his own.

‘Green for experiments, orange for food,’ Sherlock says eventually. He looks like he’s letting the words fall from his tongue against his will. John breathes a sigh of relief that he’s letting the game continue.

It doesn’t take a psychologist or a consulting detective to figure out the reasons behind those colour choices, but John doesn’t comment.

‘Green and orange, excellent,’ John beams at him. A little bit of the tension leaks out of the set of Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘Since I only brought a new kettle two weeks ago and to the best of my knowledge you haven’t boiled any blood or urine in there since – and if you have, now is a good time to tell me – I thought the new kettle could be the experiment kettle, so I chose carefully. Want to see?’

Sherlock does. He lets John undo the packaging and lift the kettle out of the box, not wanting to give away quite how weak and uncoordinated his hands are.

The kettle is good. John has chosen well. It’s got markers in both litres and pints up the side, instead of the usual ‘two cups, four cups’ rubbish, and you can not only decide in advance exactly what temperature you want the kettle to reach, but maintain that temperature for up to half an hour. Sherlock is suitably impressed. He gives a short nod and pushes the kettle back towards John.

‘Like it?’ John checks.

‘Clearly,’ Sherlock says, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. It’s the first one John has seen in over a week and he cannot help returning it with interest.

‘Shall I write the label?’ John asks. ‘Or do you want to?’

‘I think I can survive without writing infantile labels for the kettle, John,’ Sherlock says drily. ‘But be my guest if you wish to. The suspense is clearly getting to you.’

John grins his lopsided grin and wrenches the lid of the permanent marker. ‘EXPERIMENT KETTLE’ he writes on a green post-it note in large letters.

‘There you go,’ he says, brandishing it under Sherlock’s nose. ‘Whack it on.’

‘I’m glad someone is enjoying themselves,’ Sherlock glares at John without heat. John grins back.

‘Want to see what else I got?’

In spite of himself, Sherlock does. Damn.

‘Oh, if you insist,’ he sighs dramatically. John, the idiot, isn’t fooled for a second. Damn him.

‘New microwave,’ John hoists a larger box up onto the table from the floor. ‘Now, given what I know has gone into our current microwave, and there’s probably a lot of things that I don’t know about, this is going to be the food microwave. Can you live with that?’

‘It is of no consequence to me,’ Sherlock sniffs.

‘I’ll take the kettle back then,’ John’s lips are twitching.

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ Sherlock says hastily. ‘I’ll keep the damn kettle if it means that much to you.’

‘It does, yes,’ John says seriously. ‘Thank you, Sherlock.’

He writes ‘FOOD MICROWAVE’ on an orange post-it note and sticks it on top of the box.

‘We’ll unpack that later,’ John says, shoving the box back on to the floor. ‘I bet you can’t guess what else I’ve bought.’

‘I never guess,’ Sherlock says loftily. ‘There’s another box down there by your feet with a fridge in.’

John tips his head in acknowledgement.

‘Very good,’ he grins. ‘Want to see?’

‘It’s a fridge, John,’ Sherlock says impatiently. ‘I’m fairly sure I can picture it without all your tiresome heaving of stuff on to the table and back again.’

‘It’s the experiment fridge,’ John says temptingly.

‘Oh if you must,’ Sherlock snaps. ‘You’re like a child, John, wanting to show off all your Christmas presents. Are you proud of yourself?’

John doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t miss the way that Sherlock leans forward slightly as he pulls the last box up onto the table.

‘Mini fridge,’ he says, indicating. ‘It’s just the right size for body parts. You could even get a head in there, I checked.’

‘You stood in the shop and stuck your head in the fridge?’ Sherlock narrows his eyes.

‘I did, yes,’ John is grinning again. ‘The things I do for you, Sherlock.’

Sherlock meets his eyes almost shyly, and then they are both giggling ridiculously. It’s not really that funny – John, his worry about Sherlock getting the better of him, had his giggles in the shop and got it out of his system – but it feels so good to laugh with Sherlock again. It might be John’s imagination, but there seems to be the tiniest bit of colour in Sherlock’s cheeks that wasn’t there this morning.

John writes ‘EXPERIMENT FRIDGE’ on a green post-it note and sticks it on the table.

‘Want to unpack the fridge?’ he asks casually.

Sherlock does want to. He forces his fingers into subservience and extracts the fridge. It’s a good one. John hasn’t scrimped at all.

John is busy writing ‘EXPERIMENT MICROWAVE’, ‘FOOD FRIDGE’ and ‘FOOD KETTLE’ on separate post-it notes, so he doesn’t notice Sherlock’s battle with the packaging. When he looks up, Sherlock is watching him.

‘“Food kettle”?’ Sherlock reads scornfully. ‘And precisely what food do you put in the kettle, John?’

‘Oh be quiet,’ John rolls his eyes. ‘You know exactly what I mean. Now, I was thinking. This side over here– ’ he indicates behind him. ‘ –is basically your work space anyway, so if we put the experiment kettle and microwave on that side and the food kettle and microwave on the side next to the door, we could keep them separate. Then you can’t claim that you’ve used the wrong one by mistake.’

‘Very well,’ Sherlock nods once. ‘If you really consider me to be that much of an idiot.’

‘Of course I don’t,’ John says. ‘But I know you, and if you’re caught up in something you’ll just reach for whichever one is closest. And absolutely no bodily fluids whatsoever are to go in the food kettle.’

‘Yes John,’ Sherlock says.

Sherlock sits, drawing his dressing gown tight around him, and watches John pottering around rearranging the kitchen. The kettle and the microwave with the green post-it notes go on the side next to the cooker, along with his microscope and Bunsen burner and all his other equipment. The kettle and the microwave with the orange post-it notes go on the opposite side of the kitchen, on the much smaller work surface. The new experiment fridge goes on the floor in front of Sherlock’s work space, and John sticks an orange post-it note to the original fridge.

‘I couldn’t justify buying you an experiment freezer,’ John says, when this is done. ‘So I thought we could designate the bottom drawer of the existing freezer as the experiment drawer. Yes?’

Sherlock nods, and John wields his beloved post-it notes and permanent marker once more.

John has just gathered up all the packaging when there’s a soft knock at the kitchen door and Mrs Hudson appears.

‘Alright, boys?’ she asks cheerily. ‘You really didn’t look well, Sherlock, so I’ve made you some nice tomato soup. There’s plenty so there’s enough for you too, John.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ John says quickly, taking the proffered saucepan with a charming smile. ‘We appreciate it. I think you’d maybe better go downstairs though, Mrs H. I’m starting to think that Sherlock’s a bit more contagious then I thought. I don’t want you exposed to it more than you already have been.’

‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Hudson frowns in concern. ‘You don’t look at all well Sherlock. If there’s anything I can do…’

‘We’ll let you know,’ John nods. ‘Thanks for the soup.’

John waits until Mrs Hudson has left before daring to look at Sherlock. There is something akin to panic in his eyes.

‘Just a bit,’ John says.

Sherlock shakes his head, clamping his lips together like a child.

‘Not hungry,’ he says quickly. ‘I don’t want any.’

‘Just a bit, Sherlock,’ John says firmly. ‘You know you’ll feel better. Mind over matter. Isn’t that what you’re so good at?’

‘Why is it mind over matter?’ Sherlock’s eyes have narrowed.

Oops. John thinks fast. He’s got to be more careful. This is why you don’t play a game without having perused the rule book first.

‘It’s purely psychological,’ he says quickly. Words are flowing out of his mouth as soon as he’s thought of them. ‘You’ve decided that you don’t want to eat in here because you split all those chemicals, but you cleared everything up and you know that I’ve eaten in here since then and I’m absolutely fine. Therefore, mind over matter. You know it’s fine in here, so there’s no real problem. You’ve just convinced yourself that there is. Mind over matter, yes?’

He’s repeating himself inanely, so he shuts up. John has pulled two bowls out of one of the cupboards and is searching for a serving spoon before Sherlock answers.

‘I think I might be about to throw up,’ he says uncertainly.

‘You’re fine,’ John says, a little too brutally perhaps, but he’s done. ‘I’ll only give you a bit if you’re worried though. It’ll settle your stomach.’

He carefully doesn’t look at Sherlock, sitting at the table as if carved of ice. But he doesn’t need to make eye contact to see the poorly disguised panic on his face. Sherlock’s acting skills are slipping.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock manages five spoonfuls. John spends the whole time avoiding eye contact.

‘Oh, you managed some,’ he looks up as if he’s only just remembered that his friend is present when Sherlock drops his spoon with an air of finality and pushes the more than half full bowl away. ‘Well done.’

‘I don’t need your pathetic praise,’ Sherlock snaps. He looks desperately unhappy.

‘Glass of water?’ John asks, pushing back from the table. 

Sherlock gets one, regardless of his answer.

***

John spends the rest of the afternoon organising the flat and listening out for any suspicious noises from the bathroom. He sorts out two cupboards and sticks a post-it note on one. It says ‘SHERLOCK’S EXPERIMENTS’. The other cupboard doesn’t have a label, not yet, but it contains all the food John bought especially for Sherlock. The experiment cupboard is a lot fuller, but it doesn’t matter. Sherlock scoffs when he sees what John has done, but he doesn’t protest.

He does protest when John takes the scales out of his bathroom to hide them.

‘I need those,’ he says quickly.

‘What for?’ John asks innocently. ‘They are actually mine, you know, and I thought I’d take them upstairs to my bathroom. I saw them the other day and realised you probably don’t want them cluttering up your space.’

‘My bathroom’s bigger, it’s no trouble,’ Sherlock replies, in a fair imitation of his usual tone.

‘I’m not getting rid of them,’ John reassures him. 

This game is getting harder and harder for him to call. He dares to meet Sherlock’s eyes and, for the first time, he knows for sure that Sherlock is playing too. And he knows that Sherlock knows that John is playing. Time is almost up. They can’t maintain this charade much longer.

‘If you need them, ask me and you can use them,’ John offers. ‘I didn’t realise they were important.’

‘They’re not,’ Sherlock says hastily. ‘I just use them for experiments, that’s all. It will be too much of a nuisance if they’re upstairs. Leave them.’

‘No,’ John says. He looks straight into Sherlock’s eyes as he says it. The game is up. It’s time for cards on the table.

‘I’ll find them,’ Sherlock says defiantly.

‘You won’t,’ John shakes his head. ‘I’ve got the perfect place for them. You won’t find them. But if you want them, you only have to ask.’

Sherlock looks that afternoon, but he doesn’t find them.

***

Sherlock asks for the scales the next morning. John dutifully fetches them from their hiding place and brings them down to Sherlock’s bathroom. He then stands in the doorway calmly with his arms folded as Sherlock looks at him.

‘I’m not leaving,’ he says simply. ‘You’re not doing this alone.’

‘Doing what alone?’ Sherlock is angry this morning. John knows why.

‘You know what, Sherlock,’ says John calmly. ‘Stop this.’

Something breaks inside Sherlock.

‘You’ll have to see me without any clothes on then,’ he snaps. ‘And we both know how much that repulses you. I hope you manage to keep your breakfast down this time, doctor.’

John flinches but remains calm, outwardly at least. Inwardly, he is cursing himself for the damage he’s done. Sherlock doesn’t need any more ammunition against himself. He produces enough of that on his own.

Sherlock strips efficiently until he’s down to his underwear. He would appear calm but for the trembling of his limbs. It hurts John to see how automatic this routine is, and how much damage it’s doing his friend.

When he steps onto the scale, John leans in to look. He can’t help himself. Then he winces and his stomach twists painfully. It’s worse than he thought. He’s not sure what’s worse – looking at Sherlock’s body or his weight.

‘No, no, no, no,’ Sherlock is muttering to himself. ‘No, no, no.’

He’s staring fixedly at the dial of the scale, eyes wide. John can actually see him closing in on himself. The shutters are going down.

‘Sherlock?’ John asks hesitantly. ‘Are you done?’

‘No, no, no,’ Sherlock says. ‘No, no, no.’

‘Sherlock,’ John says, slightly more sharply. ‘Come on, you need to get off now. You need to get dressed. You’re shivering.’

‘No,’ Sherlock says frantically, shaking his head.

‘It’s okay,’ John says soothingly. ‘It’s okay. Calm down. You’re going to hyperventilate and then you’ll collapse. Come on.’

‘I can’t, I can’t,’ Sherlock says, ‘No, no, no.’

‘Give me your hand,’ John instructs. ‘Give it to me. Hold it out.’

Sherlock snaps out of it and whips his head around to look at John.

‘I know you don’t want to touch me,’ he snarls. His eyes are huge and wild in his thin face. ‘Stop pretending otherwise. You can’t fool me.’

‘Please, Sherlock,’ John stays calm, but his stomach has dropped out through his legs. He has done so much damage. ‘I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but get off the scales. Now. Come on.’

Sherlock makes it off the scales. His legs are trembling violently.

‘Don’t look at me if you don’t want to,’ he says scornfully as he bends down to pick up his clothes. John lunges forwards and catches him just as he’s about to pitch head first into the bath, his hands steady on Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock rights himself and pushes John away forcefully.

‘Alright,’ John says, taking a step back.

‘Get out,’ Sherlock snaps. ‘Get out, get out, get out.’

‘I’ve got to take the scales,’ John points out. ‘And I’m not leaving you, you look ready to collapse.’

‘Fine,’ Sherlock is trembling all over now. ‘Fine.’

He grabs for his clothes and stalks off towards his bedroom as best he can manage. John only hesitates for a second before following him. Sherlock dresses himself, but it’s a slow process. Putting on one of his usual suits is out of the question, so he’s living in pyjamas at the moment.

‘Sherlock,’ John says quietly, when Sherlock is done and sat on his bed silently. ‘You don’t really think I find you repulsive, do you?’

‘Hard to come to any other conclusion given the facts,’ Sherlock sneers. ‘Or maybe you’re too thick to see that.’

‘I’m sorry,’ John says helplessly. ‘I’m so sorry. I should have apologised straight away, but I didn’t know what to do. It was the shock, Sherlock, just the shock. I’m sorry.’

For a fraction of a second, Sherlock’s face twitches, but then the bitter mask drops back into place.

‘No,’ he says. ‘No. You find me repulsive.’

‘You’re not healthy, Sherlock,’ John explains gently. ‘But that’s not the same thing.’

‘Healthy?’ Sherlock’s head jerks. ‘I don’t care. My brain is the only thing that matters. Everything else– ’ 

‘Everything else is transport, yes I know,’ John nods. ‘But Sherlock, you’re killing yourself. Slowly, but you are. Your body is going to enter starvation mode soon. Your muscles will start wasting and then you won’t be able to go and drag me all over London to chase criminals, will you? And your brain needs energy or it won’t be able to function at its best. With a brain like yours, you need a lot of fuel.’

‘Fuel?’ Sherlock echoes. Sherlock despises pointless repetition. This is not good. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m not a vehicle.’

‘No, but you are human,’ John reminds him gently. ‘I don’t care what you think about your brain, you need some fuel to run it properly. And talking of vehicles, do you know what happens when a car runs out of petrol?’

‘No,’ Sherlock scoffs. As if he would have bothered to learn something as tedious as the intricacies of car mechanics.

‘Well, as it’s getting low on petrol the engine starts to not work as efficiently and when the fuel runs out completely it just stutters and dies,’ John looks at Sherlock sternly. ‘You don’t want that to happen to your brain, do you?’

There is silence as Sherlock considers this. John can practically hear the cogs turning.

‘Not healthy?’ Sherlock stammers eventually.

‘Not healthy,’ John agrees. He takes a few cautious steps towards Sherlock from where he’s been standing next to the door. ‘I’m a doctor, right? I’m the expert. You know you should listen to me.’

‘No,’ Sherlock’s shaking his head again. ‘No, I would know. I’m clever. I would know.’

‘Of course you’re clever,’ John says comfortingly. ‘I know that. Half of bloody London knows that. But look, you know people, right? You know all about the irrational things that people do and how people can kid themselves when there’s something staring them in the face.’

‘What’s your point?’ Sherlock tries for his usual biting tone, but his voice is barely above a whisper and it’s not as effective as normal.

‘That’s what you’re doing, Sherlock,’ John tells him gently. ‘You’re kidding yourself.’

‘No,’ says Sherlock determinedly. ‘That’s what ordinary people do. I’m not ordinary.’

‘No you’re not,’ John agrees, still advancing slowly, his hands held out in the universal gesture of non-threatening behaviour. ‘You’re the very definition of extraordinary. But you know how sometimes, just sometimes, ordinary people do extraordinary things?’

There is silence. John’s eardrums might burst under the pressure of it. He crosses the last few feet to Sherlock’s bed and sits down beside his friend.

‘I see,’ Sherlock says at last. ‘I see.’

John puts his arm around his shoulders.

‘I don’t want to be ordinary,’ Sherlock whispers.

‘Hey, hey,’ John says, squeezing him a little. ‘You’re not. You’re Sherlock Holmes. No-one’s quite as extraordinary as that.’

‘Get me a mirror,’ Sherlock says.

‘Are you sure?’ John hesitates.

‘Get me a mirror,’ Sherlock repeats forcefully.

John gets up and unhooks the mirror from Sherlock’s wall before bringing it over and sitting down, propping the mirror up on his own knees so that it’s angled towards Sherlock.

Sherlock sits in front of the mirror and stares at himself. His cheekbones, already prominent even when he is at a healthy weight, are the overriding feature of his face. His cheeks are hollow and gaunt and his eyes have sunk right into his face. How did John miss this? How did anyone miss this? It’s so obvious now, even to Sherlock.

‘I don’t look healthy,’ he eventually whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos on this, especially to those who did so on the last chapter, which I posted just a couple of hours after finding out that one of my school friends passed away. I seem to find writing therapeutic so I posted chapter seven in the hopes of being cheered up. The comments and kudos definitely helped in that respect, so thank you so much.


	9. Chapter 9

On Monday morning, John wakes up to find Sherlock in his bed.

‘I was cold,’ he says, when John rolls over and looks at him enquiringly. It’s a mark of how accustomed John’s got to his flatmate’s strange behaviour that he just nods.

‘Sleep well?’ John asks, stretching and trying to avoid hitting Sherlock in the face. 

After the confrontation yesterday that began with the scales and ended with the mirror, John left Sherlock alone for the rest of the day. Sherlock had just admitted something to himself and John knew he would need time to mull it all over in that ridiculous brain of his. At lunch time John had placed a cup of tea and a plate of dry crackers next to him, which he had removed untouched and then replaced several hours later.

‘No,’ says Sherlock. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Thinking.’

‘Are you thinking now?’ John asks cautiously.

‘No,’ Sherlock says blankly. ‘Can’t.’

‘Maybe you’re tired?’ John suggests, propping himself up on his elbow and looking at Sherlock, huddled under the duvet. Anyone would think it was the middle of winter.

‘No,’ insists Sherlock. ‘Just can’t think anymore. And I don’t know why.’

‘Maybe I do,’ John ventures.

Sherlock looks at him doubtfully.

‘Why would you know when I don’t?’ he asks. There is a definite accusatory note in his voice.

‘You’ve got to know when to consult the expert on a particular matter, Sherlock,’ John tries to placate him. ‘You know that.’

‘Of course I do,’ Sherlock snaps. There are dark, heavy circles under his eyes. He clearly hasn’t slept a wink.

‘Do you want to know what I think, then?’ John asks patiently.

‘You’ll tell me regardless,’ Sherlock says nastily. ‘Get it over with.’

‘Your brain doesn’t have the energy,’ John tells him gently. ‘All those mental gymnastics you do are hard work.’

‘Why would it not have the energy?’ Sherlock is still snappy. ‘I have done the sum total of nothing since that ridiculous night’s sleep you forced me into. I haven’t even left the flat!’

John takes a deep breath.

‘Come on, Sherlock,’ he says. ‘We’ve been dancing around it for days and days now. We both know what’s going on. And we need to talk about it.’

‘Talk about what?’ Sherlock enquiries, with the imitation of great politeness. ‘I must commend you for attempting to use your brain, John, but perhaps you could try and apply yourself to making a little more sense?’

‘Stop this now,’ John commands, sitting up and trying to ignore the fact that being in bed in his pyjamas doesn’t exactly give him a very authoritative position. ‘This has gone on long enough. You don’t stand a chance of getting better if you don’t admit what you already know.’

There is a horrible silence which seems to stretch on and on. After ten minutes, John gets up and heads for the bathroom. Sherlock stays motionless, curled up on himself with his arms wrapped around his legs. He doesn’t acknowledge John’s departure.

John returns twenty minutes later, freshly showered, shaved and dressed. Sherlock is still in exactly the same position as when he left.

Carefully, John sits down on the edge of the bed next to him. Sherlock uncurls himself fractionally and looks up at him.

‘I don’t have hyperthyroidism,’ he whispers.

‘No, you don’t,’ John agrees. ‘Did you want to talk about it? That’s why you came upstairs, isn’t it?’

‘Your deductions are getting better, John,’ there is a hint of a smile pulling at Sherlock’s cracked lips. ‘I’m having a good influence on you.’

‘That you are,’ John nods. ‘Shall we go downstairs or would you rather stay here?’

‘Here,’ Sherlock mumbles, before rolling over so his back is to John. John doesn’t mind. He just sits and waits. Sherlock will crack first.

Sherlock does crack first.

‘I don’t understand,’ he whispers, after five minutes of silence.

‘What don’t you understand?’ John asks gently, knowing how difficult a thing that is for Sherlock to accept.

‘How this happened,’ Sherlock admits slowly.

‘That’s okay,’ John says. ‘We can figure that out later. Right now that’s not important. What is important is what we’re going to do.’

‘We?’ Sherlock asks.

‘Yes Sherlock,’ John says, more sharply than he intended. ‘You cannot do this alone. Do you hear me? This is not the kind of thing you can do alone.’

‘I don’t need anyone,’ Sherlock says fiercely. He’s still talking to the wall but at least he’s talking.

‘Of course you do,’ John is too sensible to be offended by this.

‘Pah,’ says Sherlock eloquently.

‘I’m not even going to ask what you mean by that,’ John says. ‘What I am going to ask is what you think we’re going to do about Anna.’

‘Anna?’ Sherlock sneers. ‘Pathetic. I’ll thank you to remember that I am not a child, and nor are you.’

‘Sorry,’ John says hastily. ‘I just thought… Some people don’t like to say it. Okay, let’s try again. What do you think we’re going to do about– ’

‘No,’ Sherlock says abruptly. ‘No.’

‘Okay,’ John frowns. ‘What do you want me to say? It doesn’t have to be Anna and it doesn’t have to be the word, but you’ll have to give me a hand with this.’

Sherlock thinks for a minute.

‘Mycroft,’ he says suddenly, flinging himself over so that he’s facing John again.

‘Okay,’ John replies. ‘Okay. What do you want to do about Mycroft?’

‘Get rid of him, of course,’ Sherlock scoffs. ‘You know I can’t stand being around him for any longer than I can absolutely help. I have nothing but contempt for him. He thinks he can control my life and he is patently wrong.’

Despite it all, John has to bite back a chuckle. So typically Sherlock.

‘You know it won’t be all that easy,’ he says slowly. ‘Mycroft is used to interfering in your life so I don’t think even you will be able to stop him overnight. It’ll take a lot of hard work.’

‘Of course I know that,’ Sherlock looks at him sternly. ‘Please don’t treat me like an idiot, John. It only serves to make you look like the idiot and that is most unbecoming.’

‘Sorry,’ John actually does smile this time. ‘But if I may make a suggestion, I think the best thing to do to get rid of Mycroft would just be to carry on as if he’s not even here. Eventually he’ll get bored and leave, hmm?’

‘Mycroft has incredible willpower,’ Sherlock says grudgingly.

‘Better than yours?’ John raises an eyebrow.

‘You’re doing it again, John,’ Sherlock informs him, rolling onto his back and addressing the ceiling in a lofty voice. ‘And as I said, it is most unbecoming.’

‘I am sorry,’ John tries to make his apology sound sincere while he’s working hard to conceal his optimism. Finally, finally, finally they might be getting somewhere. He’s under no delusions that the desperately hard part is yet to come, but at least they might actually get to tackle the hard part at this rate.

‘It’s quite alright,’ Sherlock says graciously. ‘I am entirely used to you being an idiot by this stage; you needn’t think it’s a surprise.’

‘I am lucky to have you as a friend, Sherlock,’ John tells him.

‘Of course you are,’ Sherlock agrees matter-of-factly.

‘Hmm,’ John says. ‘Do you think it might be time to get up now? In the spirit of pretending that Mycroft is not present, it would probably be best if we just had breakfast and got on with our day as normal, don’t you think?’

‘Indeed,’ Sherlock says vaguely. He’s developed that familiar glazed over look in the time that John has been talking and he probably hasn’t taken in a word.

‘Oi, Einstein,’ John waves his hand in front of his face. ‘As your day normally consists of lying around shut away in your brain that is definitely in the rules, but how about you don’t do it in my bed, hmm? It’s time you got up and at least pretended to go about your day like us normal folk.’

‘Dull,’ Sherlock says absentmindedly. ‘What was that, John?’

‘Up,’ John instructs him firmly.

‘Yes, yes,’ Sherlock says. ‘I am coming. Don’t nag, John.’

‘Go and have a shower,’ John suggests. Sherlock still looks terrible but he looks better than he did on Thursday, following his week of absolutely no sleep or food, so hopefully he isn’t in danger of fainting in the bathroom. ‘And I’ll get breakfast ready.’

‘Breakfast?’ Sherlock looks a little alarmed. Even he is not that good an actor.

‘Yes,’ John says, thinking rapidly. ‘You know how Mycroft is with food. If you eat while he’s here, it’ll annoy him and he’ll leave much faster.’

Sherlock thinks about it for a moment. The alarm fades from his face and a little smile slowly appears.

‘You know, John,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes you’re really much more intelligent then I give you credit for.’


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeep, I completely forgot to say when this is taking place with regard to the two series, but from this chapter you should be able to work it out!

‘Why aren’t you at the surgery?’ Sherlock asks, announcing his presence in the kitchen.

‘Oh,’ John looks up from the sink. ‘Sarah rang yesterday. The doctor I was supposed to be covering for over the next couple of weeks had her holiday cancelled and she decided if she couldn’t go away she’d rather work and take her time off later in the year.’

‘Ah yes of course, that potential baggage handlers strike in Spain will be occurring around the time she’d be returning,’ Sherlock says.

‘Of course,’ John echoes. ‘Well anyway, breakfast?’

In the process of walking around the table, Sherlock’s step hitches slightly. You probably wouldn’t notice unless you knew him well, but even Sherlock has his tells. He looks at John. Apparently even Sherlock Holmes can look hopelessly vulnerable in the correct situation.

‘John,’ he says falteringly. ‘Do I have to?’

‘You haven’t eaten in two days,’ John reminds him.

‘That’s nothing,’ Sherlock scoffs, sitting down at the table which has been mysteriously cleared of anything vaguely scientific.

‘Ordinarily I know you can manage that,’ John says gently. ‘But we need to get rid of Mycroft, remember?’

‘Why must Mycroft always force me to do things I don’t want to do?’ Sherlock looks quite disgusted.

‘Brothers are like that,’ John informs him. ‘I am one, remember. And so are you. You should know this.’

‘I do not like being on the receiving end,’ Sherlock says sullenly.

‘No doubt,’ John says, grinning slightly. ‘Maybe you should try the whole “do as you would be done by” malarkey.’

Sherlock gives him a quizzical look.

‘John, I seem to remember instructing you to start applying yourself to making more sense,’ he says severely. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Never mind,’ John says hastily. Evidently Sherlock has deleted much of the Bible. At least he probably knows what it is. Hopefully. ‘It doesn’t matter. Breakfast? I made you some toast.’

The following pregnant pause lasts for several long moments.

‘Mycroft likes toast,’ Sherlock says suddenly. ‘He always used to eat it all when we were boys. He won’t want to share with me.’

‘Not his decision,’ John reminds him, setting a plate with a single slice of toast on the table. ‘Would you like some tea?’

Sherlock sits and watches John making tea with the food kettle, so he sees him putting in the extra ingredients that aren’t strictly speaking part of the tea making process. John has his back to him but is not making any effort to obscure what he’s doing. He’s learning.

The extra heaped teaspoon full of sugar that he puts in isn’t a surprise, but the protein powder takes Sherlock aback a little. John is more organised than he would have given him credit for.

‘Here you go,’ John says, placing Sherlock’s usual mug in front of him. Then he walks around the table and sits down opposite him with his own mug of tea and plate of toast.

Sherlock sits and stares, clenching and unclenching his fists repeatedly. The distance between his mouth and the food on the table seems insurmountable.

‘Come on, Sherlock,’ John takes a gulp of tea and looks at him carefully. ‘You must be hungry.’

‘No,’ Sherlock denies automatically. He is hungry and his brain knows it, but it’s in denial as well.

‘Have some tea,’ John suggests, drinking some more of his own. ‘It will really annoy Mycroft.’

Sherlock considers the mug and its contents. Mycroft does like tea, and if he drinks it then it will get right up his brother’s nose. The distance between his mouth and the mug doesn’t seem nearly as far, nor the journey nearly as arduous as from his plate.

‘It will, won’t it?’ Sherlock agrees, and he picks up his mug.

He watches John watch him as he takes a drink. He concentrates on John’s jaw, clenched as he tries to stop himself from speaking, so that he doesn’t have to focus on the conflicting messages coming from his stomach and his brain. His stomach is practically purring in satisfaction and most of his brain seems content to agree, but the Mycroft portion of his head is almost screaming in fury.

_Shut up, Mycroft._

Just to show his brother he downs the contents of the mug in one go, before he’s even had a chance to register the slightly altered taste due to the extra sugar and the protein powder. He puts the mug back down on the table with a small air of satisfaction and determinedly doesn’t look at John who is practically chewing his tongue off trying not to spout pointless plaudits. He really is learning.

When John trusts himself to open his mouth and say something which is neither effusive praise nor a joyful exclamation, he looks up and smiles at Sherlock.

‘Was the tea alright?’ he asks in a neutral tone of voice.

‘Passable,’ Sherlock says dismissively. Then he pauses. ‘It was very sweet. Mycroft would have liked it.’

‘I’ll put less sugar in next time,’ John offers.

‘No, it’s fine,’ Sherlock says quickly. ‘Anything to annoy Mycroft.’

‘Spoken like a true younger brother,’ John smiles at him. ‘How about some toast?’

‘Mycroft likes jam,’ Sherlock tells him.

‘Then it’s lucky I do too, isn’t it?’ John answers, getting up from the table and modifying Sherlock’s breakfast accordingly. ‘Better?’

Sherlock eats half of the slice of toast before declaring himself full. John tries not to look too ecstatic until Sherlock has left the kitchen to go and check his emails in the living room. He thinks he succeeds, but it’s a close thing. He cannot help himself. It’s not much, admittedly, but it’s a start. It’s a bloody good start.

***

On Tuesday Sherlock eats the same breakfast again. On Wednesday, he doesn’t quite manage half a slice of toast but he does eat a couple of forkfuls of John’s scrambled eggs with his glass of water at dinnertime. On Thursday he asks for cereal instead. They don’t have Mycroft’s favourite brand so John makes sure to buy an extra-large box at the supermarket later that morning. It’s not until Friday that John has to contemplate for real the situation he has been dreading. Sherlock has a case.

Three young men come to Baker Street claiming that the comic books they study to find hidden meanings have started to come to life. John thinks the idea is preposterous. Sherlock, of course, is intrigued.

‘It makes no sense, John,’ he says eagerly that evening.

‘They’re fools,’ John suggests. ‘That kid who did all the talking is clearly hallucinating. Either that or he’s spent far too much time in his favourite imaginary little world that he’s making something out of nothing.’

‘Never ignore a coincidence,’ Sherlock looks at John severely.

John ignores him in favour of taking a deep breath. He’s been psyching himself up for this moment all day, ever since Sherlock showed interest in what those boys had to say.

‘How about dinner?’ he asks offhandedly.

‘You know I don’t eat on a case,’ Sherlock says absentmindedly. He’s sprawled all over the sofa in his thinking position.

‘Yes,’ John agrees carefully. ‘But I thought things might be different at the moment, seeing as we’re trying to get rid of Mycroft.’

‘I’ll consider it,’ Sherlock says vaguely. ‘Now shush, John, I’m thinking.’

He settles back on the sofa and shuts his eyes. After this week, John is no longer worried about Sherlock being like this and just slipping into unconsciousness, but an idea does occur to him. When in this state, Sherlock is almost completely oblivious to the world around him. Previously, John has accidentally set the fire alarm off with Sherlock like this; an incident which utterly failed to rouse him from his stupor.

Maybe, just maybe, John could put some food in front of Sherlock while he’s in this condition and successfully get him to eat something without really being aware of it. John wouldn’t be quite so worried, but Sherlock only managed two spoonfuls of the Mycroft-cereal this morning along with half a mug of tea, so he hasn’t really eaten since the not-Mycroft-cereal the previous day.

John starts off slowly and balances a small plate of dry crackers on Sherlock’s chest before heading into the kitchen to cook his own dinner. When he finally cracks and peeps into the living room fifteen minutes later, three out of the four crackers are gone. John decides not to push his luck and rescues the plate before Sherlock rolls over and it clatters to the floor. He can’t believe his plan worked so easily.

Unfortunately, this does not remain the case. Sherlock solves the mystery of the comic books in three days, with John doing much of the legwork and Sherlock mostly remaining prone on the sofa, but during this time be barely eats a thing. Evidently, when he’d re-awoken in the real world on that first evening, he’d realised what he’d eaten while in a trance and vowed not to do it again, although he never spoke a word about it to John. John silently despairs.

‘Dinner, Sherlock?’ he casually asks, several hours after the case has been wrapped up.

‘Not hungry,’ Sherlock says. He’s lying on the sofa again.

‘You haven’t eaten for days,’ John says sharply. ‘You are hungry. What would you like to eat?’

‘Are you really as stupid as you seem?’ Sherlock demands. ‘I said I wasn’t hungry, ergo I do not want anything to eat.’

‘You need to eat,’ says John frankly. He is not budging. Sherlock might be stubborn but so is he.

‘No,’ Sherlock replies simply. ‘You’re not my keeper, John.’

‘I’m your doctor, though,’ John reminds him. ‘And I absolutely know what is best for you in this regard.’

‘I’ll use my own judgement on what is best for me, thanks,’ Sherlock is standing firm. How he can look so self-righteous while lying down John has no idea.

‘I think you’ve already proved yourself to be utterly irresponsible when it comes to your own wellbeing,’ John says, starting to get angry. ‘Who was it who ran off perfectly willingly with a serial killer on the second day that I knew you?’

‘And who was it who spent the whole of that night examining me for an eating disorder?’ Sherlock yells back.

There is instant silence.

‘You noticed that?’ John eventually whispers.

‘Oh please,’ Sherlock scoffs. ‘You couldn’t have been more obvious if you’d tried.’

John opens his mouth. Then he shuts it again. There is nothing to say.

‘Go on,’ Sherlock, on the other hand, is still in full flow. It’s horrifying. ‘Tell me what you found in your clinical evaluation, doctor.’

‘Nothing,’ John forces out. He’s throat is bone dry. ‘Nothing. You were fine.’

‘Exactly,’ Sherlock says triumphantly. ‘I’m fine.’

‘I said “was”, Sherlock,’ John snaps, suddenly regaining full use of his voice. ‘You’re not anymore.’

‘I am perfectly fine,’ Sherlock says. ‘You told me to eat. I ate. Aren’t you satisfied now? Have I proved the point yet?’

‘This isn’t about proving a point,’ John barely knows what to say. ‘You’re ill, very ill, and you won’t get better until you start eating like a normal human being.’

‘I’m not a normal human being,’ Sherlock informs him. He swivels on the sofa and finally sits up to make eye contact.

‘Yes you are,’ John cries. ‘You’re clever, yes, but that doesn’t mean your body is any different. Get over yourself!’

Sherlock’s eyes narrow dangerously.

‘What did you just say?’ he asks slowly.

‘No,’ John tries to back-peddle. It’s too late. ‘I didn’t mean that. Just listen, Sherlock, please. You’re ill. We need to get rid of Mycroft, remember? And the only way to do that is to eat. You were doing so well. Don’t give up now.’

‘I’ve discovered that I can get rid of Mycroft while on cases,’ Sherlock announces crisply, getting to his feet. ‘So what are you worried about?’

‘He’s not gone,’ John cries, exasperated. ‘You can just conceal him from yourself while you’re working. It’s not the same thing.’

‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock informs him superciliously, heading for the door. ‘Leave me alone.’

John snaps. All the horrendous thoughts that he’s been carefully keeping hidden just below his level of consciousness come spilling over all at once. He has no choice in what happens next.

‘You’re going to kill yourself!’ he yells at Sherlock’s back. ‘Have you not thought about that, you arrogant genius? You’re going to give yourself bloody heart failure or total sodding organ failure! This will kill you, you fool. You can’t hide away in your ridiculous intellect and expect that to protect you. Stop kidding yourself and get a grip!’


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock freezes. When he turns around he doesn’t look any different to his normal, composed self.

‘Organ failure?’ he inquires politely.

John collapses into his armchair. His legs won’t hold him anymore.

‘Yes Sherlock,’ he says wearily. ‘Organ failure. Among other things. Do you even know what you’re doing to yourself?’

‘I’m working,’ Sherlock says. He sounds slightly uncertain now. It’s so unlike Sherlock that John feels his throat close up. ‘I don’t need any distractions.’

‘Eating is not a distraction,’ John tells him gently. ‘Come on, Sherlock, sit down. We need to talk about this. We’ve been neglecting the psychological aspect of this, and it’s clearly done absolutely nothing to help. It’s my fault, I’m sorry.’

‘We discussed it,’ says Sherlock, nonplussed. ‘We talked about Mycroft. In your bedroom. Even you can’t be that– ’

‘Stop insulting my intelligence for five minutes and sit down,’ John says sternly, waiting until Sherlock does as he’s bid before he continues. ‘That wasn’t discussing it, Sherlock. That was just admitting that it existed. You need help, proper help. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t be involved with this at all – my judgement is clouded because it’s you. I’ll book you an appointment with a psychologist.’

‘No,’ Sherlock says frantically. ‘I won’t go.’

‘Oh for pity’s sake,’ John starts, his temper balanced on a knife-edge.

‘No,’ Sherlock interrupts him. ‘I mean, you can do it. I… I trust you. I won’t go to anyone else.’

‘I’m not a psychologist,’ John whispers. He is oddly touched.

‘I trust you,’ Sherlock repeats firmly.

‘I’ll try,’ John says slowly, after a minute’s thought. ‘But I’m breaking all the rules here, you know that. I shouldn’t be involved in your treatment at all. If this doesn’t work, I am booking you an appointment with a proper psychologist and you will go, even if I have to physically drag you there myself.’

‘You’re not _treating_ me,’ Sherlock says scornfully. ‘I don’t need _treatment_.’

_And that,_ John thinks to himself, _is exactly the problem, Sherlock Holmes._ He decides this is a battle for a full stomach.

‘You need food,’ he says, bypassing Sherlock’s comment. ‘What would you like?’

‘Nothing,’ Sherlock pouts slightly.

‘That won’t wash, I’m afraid,’ John smiles a little sadly. ‘Come on.’

‘I don’t see why– ’

‘I’ve told you why,’ John says abruptly. 

‘No you haven’t,’ Sherlock contradicts him, almost sulkily.

‘Well, no, there is more,’ John has to admit.

‘Tell me,’ Sherlock commands him, putting his fingers together and holding them under his chin.

John takes a deep breath.

‘Bradycardia, heart disease, electrolyte imbalance due to a lack of minerals, osteopenia or even osteoporosis,’ he lists them off dully, ticking them off on his fingers as he goes. Everything he’s been trying to suppress for the past two and a half weeks is now hanging in the air between the two of them. He can barely breathe. ‘Nerve damage, anaemia due to a lack of vitamin B12, organ failure.’

He waits for Sherlock to say something, but all he gets is a look of polite inquiry. If John didn’t know better, he would think there was nothing at all behind that cold gaze.

‘This kills people, Sherlock,’ he says quietly. ‘It does. Mycroft kills people.’

‘Mycroft is one of the most dangerous… people in the world,’ Sherlock replies eventually, stumbling a bit mid-sentence.

‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ John reminds him. ‘I’ve met him, remember? The first time I met him he was terrifying. Or at least, he tried to be.’

‘Oh, I never found Mycroft terrifying in the beginning,’ Sherlock says thoughtfully, recovering himself.

‘In the beginning?’ John probes gently.

‘Indeed,’ says Sherlock conversationally. ‘I was always convinced I could manipulate him with very little effort on my part. But then I found out what he is, what he can really do, and I realised I should probably respect him a bit more.’

The irony that Sherlock would never say this about his brother, about the actual Mycroft, is not lost on John.

‘And when did this particular realisation dawn?’ asks John tentatively.

There is a minuscule pause before Sherlock answers. You wouldn’t really notice it unless you knew the speed at which Sherlock normally rattles off answers and deductions like there’s no tomorrow.

‘Far later than it should have done,’ Sherlock admits slowly.

‘At least you’ve realised it now,’ John says encouragingly, in a far brighter tone than he really feels like using. ‘It’s one thing for you to acknowledge that Mycroft is hanging around and that you want to get rid of him just because he’s annoying you, and quite another for you to see what problems it will cause if you can’t manage to send him on his way.’

‘Quite,’ says Sherlock thoughtfully. ‘I think I’d like some dinner now, John.’

‘Excellent plan,’ John says, levering himself up out of his armchair. ‘Anything in particular you’d like?’

Sherlock thinks for a minute.

‘I liked the scrambled eggs you made yesterday,’ he says.

‘That was last week, Sherlock,’ John sighs, exasperated. ‘Wednesday, I think.’

‘Was it really?’ Sherlock looks vaguely surprised. ‘What day is it today?’

‘Monday,’ John tells him, mildly amused.

‘Ah,’ Sherlock says. ‘Well. I liked the scrambled eggs.’

‘Eggs it is then,’ John nods. ‘Scrambled again, or would you like an omelette or something?’

‘I really couldn’t care less, John,’ Sherlock is clearly tiring of this tedious conversation. ‘Make whatever you like.’

John makes Sherlock an omelette and thinks to himself that he definitely did not sign up for being Sherlock’s live-in cook, cleaner and general dogsbody as well as his personal physician when he agreed to move in with him. But it’s not as if he’d have it any other way.

‘Omelette,’ he announces five minutes later, slapping a plate on the table along with a mug of tea. Adding the extra sugar and the protein powder is now so routine that he has to stop himself from putting it in his own tea. He’s taken to adding vitamins as well.

‘Bring it out here,’ Sherlock calls through from the living room. ‘Jeremy Kyle is on.’

‘I absolutely do not care,’ John says firmly. ‘Kitchen, now. We are going to sit down and eat dinner together, and not have the food spoilt by the incessant arguing and foul language of people who cannot determine who has fathered their own child.’

‘I could tell them,’ Sherlock says. ‘It would save an awful lot of time if I went on these programmes and just deduced it.’

‘Well there’s another career for you to ponder should the detective work ever prove too exciting for you,’ John says dryly, coming and standing in the doorway to the living room and staring sternly. ‘Come on. Scran, now.’

‘I hope you’re not implying that the food you have managed to produce is on a par with MOD food, John,’ Sherlock says severely, but he does get up.

‘I bloody well hope not,’ John says with feeling. ‘I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. Come on.’

For all the usual confidence with which Sherlock enters the kitchen, his hands shake slightly as he sits down at the table opposite John.

‘I suppose I should sample this culinary genius then, shouldn’t I?’ he says. The joke is feeble but John seizes it willingly.

‘Then you’d be able to tell me whether or not it’s better than MOD food,’ he grins. ‘I’m guessing you’ve tried that at some point.’

‘Only the ration pack stuff,’ Sherlock replies vaguely, not looking very interested. ‘Boil in a bag, you know.’

‘Oh good Lord,’ John says. ‘Well my cooking is better than that, Sherlock, I can absolutely guarantee. Any food that you have to jump up and down on for five minutes to ensure that you’ll be able to get your fork into it once you’ve cooked it cannot be better than anything I can produce with an actual frying pan and a stove.’

‘I hope you’re not raising my expectations unduly,’ Sherlock says, now toying with his fork.

‘You’ve eaten my cooking before,’ John points out. ‘And I’m fairly sure it didn’t poison you, but would you feel better if I ate some of my own dinner before you did?’

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock makes an absentminded affirmative noise, so John digs in. Sherlock watches closely.

‘Not poisonous, see?’ John says through a mouthful of food, looking at Sherlock and waving his fork around for emphasis.

‘Indeed,’ Sherlock inclines his head.

‘Eat up then,’ John swallows and looks at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock picks up his fork. He wants to eat it, he really does. He knows he’s hungry and now he knows, knows, knows just what he’s doing to himself. Sherlock Holmes isn’t stupid. Sherlock Holmes has no desire to develop something tedious like bradycardia or osteoporosis which would affect how well he could do his job, or, even worse, something like organ failure which would see him laid up in a hospital bed, unable to do _anything_. Sherlock Holmes needs to be fit and healthy. Sherlock Holmes wants to be well again.

He takes a tentative bite. John is watching him from under his eyelashes, trying not to show it. Sherlock chews. He chews and chews and chews. The food is still in his mouth.

‘Swallow,’ John says quietly. ‘Come on, you can do it.’

_I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. My throat won’t work._ His thoughts must show on his face because John’s creases in concern.

‘You can,’ he says. His voice is kind but firm. ‘And you know you’ve got to. Come on. Swallow.’

Sherlock manages it. He then realises he has chewed and swallowed without once tasting what he was eating. Although he knows it’s not physically possible, he can practically feel the food travelling down in his stomach. He hates it. It’s hateful, but what’s more hateful is the fact that he hates it in the first place. 

_Stupid. Weak._

‘Well done,’ John says softly.

All that’s ringing in Sherlock’s head is _No, no, no, no. Weak. Stupid._ Is he weak and stupid for letting his body and his brain make such a big deal about this, or is he weak and stupid for giving in to John and eating it? _I don’t know._

John can see that Sherlock is scared. He’s scaring himself with the irrationality of the whole thing, and that scares John.

‘Have another mouthful,’ John suggests. He hates himself for having to say it. He hates himself for provoking the look that flits across Sherlock’s face.

‘No, thank you,’ Sherlock says, pushing his plate away. John opens his mouth to answer, but before he can get a word out, Sherlock has abruptly pulled his plate back towards him.

_Stupid. Weak. Don’t let it get to you. You’re better than this._ He eats another mouthful. This one goes down more easily. _Stupid. Weak. Giving in like that. You don’t need this._ He shoves another forkful into his mouth. He may as well be eating sawdust. _Stupid. Why are you making a big deal about a simple, dull thing like eating? Weak._ He swallows. The food catches in his throat and he almost chokes. _Weak. Stupid. All your good work, wasted. Stop eating, idiot._

John watches Sherlock clear his plate. He is torn. On the one hand, Sherlock has just eaten an entire meal and managed a mug of tea. On the other hand, his face during the ordeal speaks volumes. Horror, revulsion, conflict, self-loathing – nothing John saw there can be construed as good. And the worst thing of all? He has no idea what to do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm, so, 'scran' is military slang for food, in the UK anyway. Just to clear that up if anyone was confused. And can you tell that I have had, erm, _experiences_ with this food?


	12. Chapter 12

John watches Sherlock’s determined progress over the next few days with horrified fascination. Sherlock is clearly at war with himself. On the one hand, it is clear that the absolute last thing that he wants to do is eat, but on the other hand it is equally clear that he despises himself for being so _human_ about the matter. He wants to be able to turn on and off the needs of his body on a whim, and it’s only just dawning on him that he can’t.

Sherlock eats. He eats whatever John puts in front of him, although almost every mouthful is torture. He resists the urge to throw the food away. He resists the urge to smash the plate. He resists the urge to rush to the bathroom and vomit. He resists the urge to slam his bedroom door in John’s face and barricade himself in. What he can’t do is silence the nagging, niggling, shouting, screaming thoughts in his head which alternately curse him for eating and curse him for not eating. He can’t win. 

He knows that John is doing his best to help. Apart from mealtimes, he’s doing his best to ensure that life continues as normal, except Sherlock is in no real state to go dashing about London so the cases are pretty much on hold, aside from simple things he can solve from the flat.

Sherlock lies on the sofa with his laptop balanced on his chest and reads John’s latest blog post, published just minutes ago from about three metres away.

‘What do you think?’ John asks. Sherlock frowns a little at the idea that he’s so predictable, but is quickly distracted by the contents of the update.

John has written the whole thing as he normally does. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t be able to tell anything about Sherlock’s… issue. He wonders what Mycroft will be able to read into the entry. Or, more accurately, what Mycroft’s minions will be able to tell Mycroft about what they’ve read into the entry.

He’s still being stared at. Sherlock realises that John is expecting an answer.

‘Your usual rubbish,’ he says dismissively, waving a hand blithely. John looks oddly reassured at this assessment.

‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘Look, I fixed some stuff up in the kitchen this morning. Fancy taking a look?’

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat, which is a ridiculous claim. The heart is stationary, it cannot ‘skip’ anywhere, and it is entirely unlikely that a simple comment such as John’s would cause all the pacemaker cells of the sinoatrial node to simultaneously fail for a period of time exactly equal to one heartbeat. But then again, the same simple comment is also unlikely to cause the contents of the peritoneum to drop out through the bottom of his pelvis, but he’s growing used to his body failing him.

John, damn him, senses the hesitation.

‘Come on, I’ll show you,’ he suggests kindly.

Sherlock’s stomach clenches. _Damn biology, damn physiology._ He cannot bear this kindness. He cannot bear being looked after and babied and treated as if he’s made out of spun glass. It is horrendous and humiliating and entirely unnecessary, apart from the fact that it’s almost as necessary as breathing right now. And far more boring.

Sherlock finds himself on his feet and halfway to the kitchen. He genuinely has no idea how he got there. His body is becoming less and less his every day.

John is hovering. It’s unbearable. Sherlock marches into the kitchen.

‘Well, what?’ he demands. Hopefully his snarky tone of voice disguises the slight tremor.

‘I’ve sorted you out a cupboard,’ John explains, indicating.

‘I’ve already got a cupboard,’ Sherlock scowls. ‘Seeing as you made me remove all of my equipment from the table.’

‘No, Sherlock,’ John says patiently. ‘A food cupboard. I’ve got some stuff especially for you that you can snack on when you feel like it.’

Sherlock tries to force down the involuntary revulsion he feels at the word ‘snack’. He should be feeling glad about this. John has provided an excellent practical solution which makes it incredibly simple for Sherlock to find appropriate food whenever he wants it. He doesn’t even have to look inside to know what John will have stocked in there. 

He should be pleased with this solution. He is pleased. He is, except for the fact that he isn’t. How dare John provide him with food? He doesn’t need food. The brain is the thing. Everything else is transport. Transport needs fuel. It’s an excellent plan.

‘I’ve labelled the cupboard so that Mycroft doesn’t eat your food while he’s here,’ John explains.

Indeed he has. An orange post-it note with ‘SHERLOCK’S FOOD’ is stuck to the door, mirroring the green experiment post-it note on the cupboard next to it. Good solution.

‘Acceptable,’ Sherlock hears himself say eventually. ‘Mycroft is the most awful gannet you could have the misfortune to meet.’ 

John laughs. It’s a little too over-enthusiastic for the remark, but it’s definitely genuine. Sherlock should know. John’s obviously building up to something.

_Spit it out, John._

‘Sherlock,’ John begins tentatively.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says, rolling his eyes with boredom. ‘Yes, we can talk. Yes, you can have your little attempt at psychoanalysing me.’

‘I’m not in the business of psychoanalysing anyone,’ John says firmly, without a pause. By now, he is well past the stage of being surprised when Sherlock answers a question or replies to a statement that hasn’t yet been voiced. ‘It’s just important that you talk about all this. Otherwise you’ll never get better.’

‘Fine,’ Sherlock stalks back into the lounge. He knew this was coming, of course, and it’s clearly better to get it over sooner rather than later. So why are his intestines persisting in defying biology and twisting themselves into knots?

Sherlock throws himself on the sofa just as John appears in the doorway to the kitchen.

‘I’m not sure if this is the right time,’ he says uncertainly. ‘Maybe we should leave it for a bit.’

‘Get on with it,’ Sherlock says waspishly. ‘The sooner we get this charade over with, the better.’

‘Definitely not the right time,’ John concludes firmly. ‘I’ll be back in a bit, I’m going out.’

The only thing worse than John forcing him to talk about this is John deciding for him that he’s not yet ready to talk about it.

***

John paces the streets of London for over an hour, barely aware of where he’s walking. His head is full of concerned noise which he is refusing to let descend into panic. Sherlock will be fine. Of course he will; he’s Sherlock.

_I don’t know how to do this._

Sherlock won’t go to anyone else. He’s made that clear, and John knew it anyway. This is all down to him.

_I’ve stitched men up on the battlefield. I’ve held their hands and had to watch them bleed out on the sand, and yet this scares me._

He sits down on a bench in Hyde Park and stares out over the water of the Serpentine. It is quiet on the surface, but who knows what is going on underneath. Sherlock’s mind is always churning and turning beneath the calm exterior. He can have a problem solved and laid out in itemised compartments from A to Z in the time it takes everyone else to figure out exactly what they’re supposed to be looking at. Who knows what really goes on in his head?

John has to find out. God help him.

***

When John arrives back at the flat, Sherlock seems much calmer. They stare at each other for several long seconds.

‘Oh, stop dithering,’ Sherlock eventually snaps.

John can deal with snappiness. It’s not like Sherlock is ever much different.

‘Are you– ?’ he asks slowly.

‘Yes I’m sure, yes I’m ready,’ Sherlock says peevishly. ‘Just get on with it, John.’

John takes off his coat and makes his way slowly to his armchair. Sherlock watches him from the sofa, but he doesn’t speed up. He still has no idea how to do this. He’s no psychologist, not by any stretch of the imagination.

‘Erm,’ he says intelligently.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ Sherlock sighs impatiently. ‘Did you not do any psych training at all? I’d have thought the Army was rather big on all that.’

John ignores him. This is going to be even harder than he had thought, and that’s saying something.

‘Shall I make this easier for you?’ Sherlock asks. The sneer is only marginally leaking into his tone.

‘Give me a minute,’ John tries not to glare. He really needs to get himself together.

_Just a normal patient. Don’t look at him. Not Sherlock._

‘So,’ he says eventually.

‘So,’ Sherlock echoes. The fact that he is mocking John goes unspoken by either of them.

‘We need to work out where this all came from,’ John ploughs on. _I've started, so I’ll finish._ ‘Once we know exactly why this happened we’ll be able to ensure it doesn’t happen again. And you won’t be able to get completely better until you’ve dealt with whatever it was that triggered this in the first place.’

There. He got through it. That sounded quite professional. John is oddly proud of himself.

Sherlock is looking at him with a strange expression on his face. John thinks it might be pity, but that’s not an expression he’s ever seen on Sherlock’s face before, and anyway it doesn’t really seem to fit the situation. If anything, the pity should be going the other way. If Sherlock would allow it.

After at least a minute’s silence, John has to speak again.

‘What is it?’ he asks, confused.

‘I’m disappointed, John,’ Sherlock smiles contemptuously. ‘I thought I’d taught you better than that.’

John is completely nonplussed by now.

‘What do you mean?’ he frowns.

‘“We need to work out where this all came from”,’ Sherlock repeats in a singsong voice. It makes John’s toes curl.

‘Well, yes,’ he replies, more than a little defensively. ‘We do. I know you like to think you’re invincible, Sherlock, but you are actual a normal human being underneath everything.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Sherlock snaps. ‘You think that’s what I’m talking about? I genuinely thought you were more intelligent than that, John. I’m merely informing you that I am wondering why you think it necessary for me to – what’s that horrendous phrase? – do a little _soul searching_ in order to deduce exactly what circumstances might have led to this occurring.’

The disgust is evident in his tone. John just gapes at him, trying to process it all in his head.

‘You’ll get there eventually,’ Sherlock says cruelly. ‘Even your brain can’t be that inadequate.’

The personal attacks are a clear indication of Sherlock’s level of disquiet, so John ignores them in favour of making sense of what the heck is going on. Eventually, he speaks again.

‘Are you saying..?’ he starts, and then trails off shaking his head. Sherlock is smiling disdainfully; trying to push his unease onto John.

‘Oh come on,’ Sherlock sighs, after another short period of heavy silence. ‘Spit it out. I know what you’re going to say, anyway.’

‘You said you didn’t understand what happened,’ John says slowly. ‘You said it days ago, when you were up in my bedroom. Remember?’

‘Of course I remember,’ says Sherlock crossly. ‘Honestly, John.’

John is more confused than ever by now. Sherlock just isn’t _making sense_. Is he doing it on purpose? How on Earth John ever thought he had a hope in Hell of playing psychologist to Sherlock Holmes is beyond him – Sherlock would be a tough nut to crack for any fully trained and vastly experienced psychologist.

‘Help me out here, Sherlock,’ John eventually says, summoning as much authority into his tone as he can manage. It’s well below his usual best.

Sherlock looks at him and raises his eyebrows. John settles for staring back at him, hoping that his friend won’t chose to continue being difficult. Eventually, Sherlock opens his mouth to speak. John metaphorically crosses his fingers.

‘You really must learn to listen, John,’ Sherlock says condescendingly. How he can still manage to sound supercilious under the circumstances, John has no idea. ‘I said I didn’t know how it happened. I know why. I am a genius, after all.’


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Thirteen - known in my head as 'The Chapter When John Does Some Deducing, aka Diagnosing, For Himself (Finally)'

John just stares. It takes him a while to realise that he doesn’t know why this surprises him.

‘Care to…’ he starts croakily, before stopping to clear his throat. ‘Care to share it with me?’

‘Not especially,’ Sherlock says casually. John sighs. Of course Sherlock will be contrary about this.

‘Sherlock,’ he sighs, not especially sure what he’s about to say.

‘Come on, John,’ Sherlock’s eyes are alight with some kind of manic fervour. It’s downright disconcerting. ‘You’re so keen to psychoanalyse me. Maybe you should figure it out for yourself.’

‘That’s not fair,’ John protests. ‘I’ve told you I’m not trying to psychoanalyse anyone, least of all you. I’m trying to help you.’

‘I don’t need your help,’ Sherlock suddenly hisses viciously, pushing himself up from the sofa and stalking out of the room. 

John stares after him, utterly bewildered. He has long since given up trying to understand Sherlock, but that was especially mercurial, even for him. What on Earth could he have done to trigger that little outburst?

Long after Sherlock’s bedroom door has slammed, John sits in the living room, his mind churning. He tries to think like Sherlock. Evidently, he said something which touched something raw inside his friend. By now John knows the difference between mocking, slightly amused yet bored by the proceedings Sherlock and defensively aggressive Sherlock, and he just saw the sudden switch between the two. So the question is; what caused it?

Sherlock would know. If the positions were reversed, Sherlock would know in an instant what had put John on the defensive, that’s the irritating thing. John needs to be able to help Sherlock as Sherlock would help John.

He replays the conversation in his head, as best he can remember it. He’s sure he’s missing important details, that Sherlock would be disgusted, but it’s as good as he can do. He can’t see anything.

_That’s not fair. I’m not trying to psychoanalyse anybody. I’m trying to help._

That’s what made Sherlock flip. He can’t see anything in those sentences worthy of such a reaction.

_Except…_

John is on his feet without realising he was getting up in the first place. 

Sherlock Holmes is independent. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t need anybody. Sherlock Holmes has never had a friend in his life. Sherlock Holmes always works alone, or used to anyway. Sherlock Holmes cannot accept help.

John hesitates, wanting nothing more to stride along the hallway to Sherlock’s room and force him to talk about this. But what can he say? Anything he says will make Sherlock clam up more and cause him to be even more resentful. It might make the whole situation worse, and Sherlock has been doing _so well_. John is so proud of him for eating. He sees the mental fight that rages during every meal, sees how much Sherlock hates what a big deal this has become in his life. He desperately wants Sherlock to get better, but he still doesn’t know what caused this decline in the first place. The fact that Sherlock does, but won’t talk about it, is infuriating. And if Sherlock gets angry at the mention of help, how is John supposed to help him? And how has Sherlock been accepting help for the past week and a half without a fuss?

His head pounding, John sinks back down into his chair. Barging in like a bull in a china shop won’t do anyone any favours. He needs to think about this properly, but bloody hell his head hurts. Is this how Sherlock feels the whole time? Is this whole thing some kind of issue of control? He’s heard Sherlock bemoan his brain and its differences to those of other people on more than one occasion. If you are functioning on some higher cerebral level than almost everyone around you can even contemplate, how frustrating is your life? In that situation, would it really be all that surprising if you ended up trying to put some order into your life by controlling what you eat and when? When all is said and done, is an eating disorder all that different from indulging in drugs?

John doesn’t know much about Sherlock’s drug history. From what he can glean from Mycroft and Lestrade, Sherlock was never addicted to cocaine. He took it when he was bored and his brain was tearing itself up for want of anything else to do. He took it to escape the constant, incessant activity inside his skull. He took it to fight off depression. To John’s doctor’s ear it seems like at times, when Sherlock was fighting long periods of ennui and subsequent depression, he was indulging in more than enough to be classified as an addiction, but he apparently never succumbed. Sherlock’s brain was sufficient to keep a drug addiction at bay, but not an eating disorder. What’s different now?

***

Sherlock doesn’t emerge from his bedroom until the next afternoon. John tries to coax him out several times but gets no response.

‘Cup of tea, Sherlock?’ John asks casually when his friend appears in the kitchen, trying to disguise his relief. He’s sure it’s a pointless exercise, but he does it anyway.

‘No thank you,’ Sherlock says smoothly.

Sherlock has not refused any offer of food or drink in the past four days, in spite of the effort it cost him. John’s stomach drops like a stone. This is exactly what he feared and exactly what he expected. He doesn’t understand, but he isn’t surprised.

‘Are you sure?’ he tries to entice Sherlock. ‘And you haven’t eaten in ages. Would you like some toast?’

‘No,’ Sherlock snaps moodily. ‘Leave me alone. You’re as bad as Mycroft.’

Which Mycroft he means, John has no idea, but the thought upsets him either way.

***

Sherlock throws himself down on the sofa and frets. No, he doesn’t fret. He _thinks_. His oversight is unacceptable, quite unacceptable. Thankfully, John’s words the previous evening finally shocked him into awareness. He’s somehow been manipulated into walking into the very thing he was trying to avoid in the first place.

He will not be making that mistake again.

Sherlock Holmes needs no-one.

***

Sherlock’s inactivity scares John. When he’s like this, mostly between cases, his depressive sulks are deeply worrying. It’s at times like this that John can easily see how drugs were an attractive choice to a younger, more naïve Sherlock. Is this how the eating disorder muscled its way in? John has to find out. He cannot have Sherlock sliding into depression on top of everything else.

‘Sherlock,’ he says tentatively, coming to stand next to the sofa. ‘Sherlock, are you there?’

Sherlock’s eyes snap open.

‘Of course I’m here, John, where else would I be?’ he answers scornfully.

‘Fair point,’ John acknowledges with a tip of his head. ‘Come on, Sherlock, we need to talk about this. Lift your feet up, I’m sitting down.’

‘We do not need to talk about anything,’ Sherlock glares up at John angrily, his eyes narrowed.

‘Yes we do,’ John says simply, making to move Sherlock’s feet himself.

‘Leave me alone,’ Sherlock snaps suddenly. ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’

‘At least let me do something wrong before you get angry with me,’ John tries to make light of the situation.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but his face is a picture. And a picture, as they say, is worth a thousand words.

‘What is it, Sherlock?’ John asks quietly, giving up on sitting on the sofa and crouching down cautiously by Sherlock’s head instead. ‘What have I done to upset you? And don’t tell me it’s nothing, because although I may not be anywhere near as perceptive as you, even I can tell that you are upset with me for some reason.’

‘Will you just leave me alone?’ Sherlock demands impatiently, blatantly ignoring John’s question.

‘I’m trying to look after you,’ John explains, deciding to let it slide for the time being. 

This is evidently the wrong thing to say.

‘Look after me?’ Sherlock repeats in disbelief. John bites his lip. ‘Look after me? And why would I need you to look after me? I am perfectly capable of doing that for myself, thank you very much. Now just _go away_.’

‘I didn’t mean look after you like a child,’ John says quickly, although at times that is exactly what it feels like. ‘I just meant I help you out with stuff.’

‘Help me out with stuff?’ Sherlock echoes. John is becoming concerned by the amount of repetition that is occurring. 

Sherlock looks up at John’s face at last. His friend, no, his _flatmate_ , looks so full of concern that it makes Sherlock recoil in something like horror. He doesn’t need John. He doesn’t need _anyone_.

‘Yes, of course I help you out sometimes,’ John says. Sherlock detects slight desperation in his tone. ‘That’s what friends do. You’ve helped me out too, you know. What’s wrong with that? I want to help you with things. Reminding you do eat, sleep, be polite to people; that’s what I do.’

It suddenly hits Sherlock all over again. He has the same realisation for the second time in as many days, and this time it’s even worse.

‘I don’t need your help,’ he snarls. ‘I am perfectly capable of controlling my own life.’

‘I didn’t say you weren’t,’ says John hastily. Sherlock sees that John knows he’s losing control of the situation, and losing it fast. ‘But Sherlock, not being 100% self-sufficient is not a weakness. It’s called being human. We’re all guilty of that. You can be independent all you like but having someone to talk to, to communicate with, to remind you when you’re being a bit of a dick, that’s just life. That’s what people do.’

‘I’m not– ’

Sherlock suddenly stops speaking. He knows John is staring at him in avid bewilderment but he takes no notice. 

_It’s happened anyway. Everything you were trying to avoid. Call yourself intelligent._

Sherlock stands up abruptly. John is on his feet too, looking alarmed.

‘What is it, Sherlock?’ he asks urgently. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Leave me alone,’ Sherlock snarls. ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’

John looks taken aback, as he well might. As far as he’s concerned, this new attack is entirely out of the blue.

‘Sherlock please,’ he says pleadingly. Sherlock scoffs scornfully. Does John really think pleading will get him anywhere? ‘I need to understand what the matter is. Is this about something I’ve done? About things I do for you? Please tell me.’

Something breaks. Sherlock has an extensive knowledge of human anatomy but he cannot explain the physical crack that he feels spread through his abdomen. He sags where he stands. Somehow John is right there behind him and catches him. He tries to shake him off. He doesn’t need _help_.

_Stop showing weakness._

It annoys Sherlock no end when John ignores his admittedly feeble efforts to get him to back off and just sinks to the floor, still holding him tight.

‘Tell me, Sherlock,’ John’s voice is low in his ear. Sherlock doesn’t have the energy to fight him.

‘Bloody deduce it for yourself,’ Sherlock mutters. Even John cannot be this stupid.

‘You know I can’t,’ John says. ‘I’m an idiot, remember?’

‘Even you are not that much of an idiot,’ Sherlock informs him. He’s aiming for his usual condescending tone. He falls a bit short. ‘I’ve practically told you. Get on with it.’

‘I,’ John starts hesitantly. ‘I’ve probably got it all wrong, Sherlock.’

‘Just get on with it,’ Sherlock growls. They are still huddled together on the floor. He cares about it, oh yes he cares, but he doesn’t seem to have much choice in the matter.

‘Well,’ John says slowly. ‘Since yesterday, you’ve clammed and got all defensive whenever I mention helping you, doing stuff for you.’

Sherlock stiffens. He cannot help it. That should only serve to strengthen John’s theory.

‘So,’ John continues. And indeed, he does sound a little surer of himself. ‘All of this, all of Mycroft, stems from the fact that you don’t want to accept any help.’ Something suddenly changes in John’s voice. A light bulb has flicked on in his brain. ‘You don’t want help from anyone, you don’t want anyone doing things for you in any way, because you think it’s a weakness. Is that what this is about?’

Sherlock knows that his silence is as good as an affirmative answer. He feels John’s hand tighten around his upper arm.

‘I need you to tell me that I’m right,’ John says quietly. Of course he does. John is an idiot.

‘You want me to take up your role of spouting effusive praise just due to the utterance of a statement of the bloody obvious?’ Sherlock demands.

Apparently that is sufficient for John.

‘Okay,’ he says. He sounds quite calm but Sherlock can hear the cogs churning away behind him. ‘Okay. Well done, Sherlock.’

Well done? What is he, a dog? And anyway, what has he done that’s so great this time? Sherlock frowns. 

_You’ve become so accustomed to it, to him, that you don’t notice it anymore._

‘Stop speaking like that,’ he snarls. ‘You’re not in charge of me. You don’t look after me.’

‘I know, I know,’ says John quickly. He makes to stand up and hauls Sherlock to his feet as he goes. Sherlock finds himself deposited on the sofa. 

‘Are you quite finished?’ Sherlock glares up at him. He is suddenly absolutely exhausted, which shouldn’t surprise him in the least. There’s no way John would have got that out of him if he’d been functioning at anywhere near his best. 

‘Nearly,’ John is clearly reluctant to say what he has to say next. ‘But I just have to ask, Sherlock. If this, all this, is because you think it’s a weakness to accept help from anyone, then why am I here? Why do I come to crime scenes with you? What’s all that about? I’m assuming it’s different to everything else that’s going on, but I don’t understand why. Can you tell me?’

Sherlock stares up at John, nonplussed. The question has completely thrown him. He is out of his depth. Is this how John, along with everyone else in the world, feels all the time? How dull.

‘It’s different,’ he eventually says slowly. He can feel his lips forming the words _I don’t know_ , but somehow they can’t make it out of his mouth.

***

Sherlock looks horribly small curled up on the sofa. He may as well have his thumb in his mouth for all the vulnerability he’s emanating.

In the doorway, John sighs heavily. Finally, finally he might be getting somewhere. Or he might be on the way to getting somewhere. It actually makes a lot of sense, when he thinks about it. Eating disorders are all about control, and somehow Sherlock has got it into his head that to admit to liking someone, that coming to depend on someone for occasionally providing everyday needs and expecting them to be there is a horrendous weakness. 

Sherlock did not have an eating disorder when John moved in, and now he does. Sherlock does not like to admit to being human. In the time that he has been living here, John, intentionally or not, has been trying to make Sherlock realise that he is human. Sherlock would see coming depend on someone other than himself as a weakness. Sherlock would want control back. The pieces are not hard to fit together, not when they’re laid out like that.

John feels a twist in his gut. So this is his fault? Inadvertently, of course, but can he blame himself? He has a horrible feeling that he’s going to, whether it’s right or not, but he can’t let himself think like that now. He has to help Sherlock. Without helping Sherlock. How is that possible? And why is he allowed to help Sherlock on cases, but not to remind him to eat and sleep when they’re at home?

_I need to talk to Sherlock more. I need to get him to open up._

He looks over at his friend, looking helplessly childlike on the sofa, and it hits John in a flash of horrifying clarity that this is the one situation where Sherlock does not have all the answers. He does actually need John’s help in this, whether he likes it or not. And this may be the one thing John cannot help him on.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s a good thing that Sherlock is stubborn. Over the next few days, John knows he has to back off and consider how to proceed, so he doesn’t make Sherlock cups of tea, he doesn’t make him dinner and he doesn’t encourage him to snack while he’s working on his experiments. Thankfully, after his wobble the previous Friday, Sherlock has reverted back to forcing himself to eat. Granted, he is not eating as well as when John was taking a much more active involvement and he exists mainly on over-sweet tea and toast, but he is eating and he is eating a lot. John can almost see his weight going up day by day. He still has a good few stone to go, though, before he’ll be at a healthy weight.

John knows that he should be pleased, and he really is, but Sherlock is just going through the motions. Whether he likes it or not, he is in the grip of a psychological condition and dealing with the symptoms of that will not solve the actual problem. In a simple world, John could breathe a sigh of relief and say that now he is no longer pushing Sherlock to eat, the problem has gone away, but it has developed into something more now. Not wanting someone telling him what to do or being concerned about him has long since ceased to be the reason that Sherlock doesn’t want to eat. John has no doubts that Sherlock will keep ploughing on relentlessly until his body is healthy again, because that’s just the way he is, but his mind is not healthy and force-feeding himself is not going to do anything to change that.

Not helping Sherlock, not being able to praise him for eating, not being able to offer him tea is some sort of torture for John. His overwhelming instinct is to tell Sherlock how well he is doing and how proud he is of him, but he now knows that this will do much more harm than good. Instead, he channels his energies into making life as easy as possible for Sherlock. At first, he is dubious about buying food for Sherlock’s food cupboard but he quickly realises that it won’t occur to Sherlock to do this for himself, so he’s going to have to. He buys things that he knows Sherlock likes and things that are high in calories. He transfers the box of protein powder sachets from the cupboard containing the tea to Sherlock’s cupboard, and notes with approval that Sherlock seems to be putting it in his tea at least 50% of the time.

They eat together every evening, not really speaking very much except about John’s day and Sherlock’s experiments. Sherlock, without fail, has toast. He eats varying amounts and with various different spreads, but he always has toast. John is trying to set an example and is eating nothing but healthy meals. He’s glad Sherlock is getting calories into himself, but he could do with something more nutritious than toast upon occasion. If Sherlock gets the message – and of course he does – he’s ignoring it for the time being.

John reads books and journals and surfs the internet. He knows the basics, of course, but he’s a bit rusty and to be honest, none of the advice looks particularly appealing when applied to Sherlock Holmes. Apparently, he needs to get Sherlock to tackle his ‘feelings about food’, and he can just imagine how Sherlock would react that that suggestion. He has no desire to induce another tantrum.

***

Sherlock eats. He eats because he has to and because, well, if Mycroft is telling him not to then it’s the obvious thing to do. He doesn’t weigh himself anymore, only partially because John confiscated the scales, but he knows to within two pounds how much weight he is putting on. He looks at himself in the mirror and part of his brain rejoices while the other half screams in fury. It’s a very fine line to walk. If he stumbles then he’s done for.

_Shut up Mycroft._

He feels better within himself. Healthier. He has more concentration and better co-ordination and reflexes. All of these things are good, especially for carrying out experiments. The thing which is not so good is that his mental acuity seems to be slipping slightly. Right at the very beginning of this, he discovered that just a little too much hunger added a certain extra sharpness to his thoughts. It helped to get him hooked, but it’s not doing him any favours now.

But he does eat. He has to eat. He eats because he’s ill and he eats because he needs to get better. 

_John wants you to get better._

Alone in his room in the middle of the night, he shakes off the nasty little voice that sounds so much like Mycroft.

‘Of course he does,’ Sherlock tells Mycroft scornfully. ‘He has foolishly decided that he is my friend, so of course he does.’

_Are you sure you’re not just doing this because John wants you to?_

‘Positive,’ Sherlock growls. ‘I want to be better. I’m a much better detective when I can actually go in search of clues and suspects instead of staying inside on my arse like some people.’

_That’s a cheap shot. You’re getting a bit overly defensive, aren’t you? You’re just doing this for John._

‘I am not,’ Sherlock says indignantly. ‘The fact that he wants the same thing is purely incidental. He has nothing to do with it.’

It’s true, too. John may have woken him up to the truth of it all, but since the realisation dawned the driving force has been Sherlock. If John started to come along for the ride then that is not his problem.

_There you go, you see,_ says Mycroft triumphantly. _It’s all because of John. And you've always said that you didn’t want anyone to care about you._

‘I don’t,’ hisses Sherlock viciously. ‘Why would I need anyone?’

_Why indeed? So why did you need John to point this out to you? If John had to hand you a realisation on a plate then it can’t have been a very worthy realisation to have. You know you don’t need him. You were fine as you were. We were fine as we were. Let’s go back to being that way. Just you and me, eh Sherlock? We don’t need John’s help._

‘John’s not helping,’ Sherlock says. And as he says it, he feels something strange flood through him, twisting his stomach. It takes him a while to realise that it’s sadness. Why isn’t John helping? Doesn’t he care anymore?

_I thought you didn’t want him to care._

‘I don’t, obviously,’ Sherlock scoffs.

_You’re not doing a very good impression of it, are you? You’ve got in too deep, Sherlock Holmes. You let your guard down. You used to be so strong, so independent, but now you’re used to someone caring about you. I’ve said it so many times before, Sherlock, you know I have. What is it I always used to tell you?_

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock says frantically. ‘Shut up.’

_I told you when we were boys, didn’t I?_

‘I have never had any problems ignoring anything you might have to say,’ Sherlock informs him crisply.

_No,_ Mycroft concedes. _But that doesn’t mean you don’t know that I am right._

‘No,’ says Sherlock firmly. ‘You’re wrong. You’re always wrong.’

_Well we both know that’s not true._

‘You’re wrong about this,’ Sherlock says. ‘You’re wrong. You’re wrong. I’m going to be better. You’re just jealous, you fat lazy sod.’

_Personal insults are always an indication that I’m getting far too close to the truth, aren’t they?_

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock snaps. ‘You’re not in charge of me any more than John is.’

_Like I said, we both know that’s not true. Come on, Sherlock, stop kidding yourself. You’re better than this._

‘I’m better than you,’ Sherlock says determinedly. ‘And I will beat you. One day.’

Finally, mercifully, Mycroft falls silent and Sherlock can sleep. He doesn’t, though. He lies awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling that he cannot make out in the dark. He will beat it, he will. He doesn’t need Mycroft, or the other Mycroft, or anyone. And definitely not John.

Except, maybe John.

***

Upstairs, John is also awake, staring at his laptop instead of the ceiling. After a week of agonising, he has a plan. He thinks. It’s the only way forward he can see for the time being, but the problem is that it could backfire horribly.

He sits and stares at his laptop screen for a long, long time, oblivious to Sherlock’s whispered conversation below, and thinks. There are so many ways this could go wrong, the most obvious of these being that he doesn’t know how Sherlock will react. He can envisage many reactions, from ignoring it in a fit of boredom to a complete meltdown of catastrophic proportions. And there’s really only one reaction that will do.

Eventually, he starts to type. He types even slower than he normally does, erasing whole chunks of text when he is dissatisfied and starting again from scratch many times. It takes him a good hour to type up what is really not a very long email at all. Then he reads it through three times, before deleting half of it and re-wording it to his satisfaction.

Even when it is finished, it takes another half an hour for John to work up the courage to send it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say to anyone who has been reading this as I update, please make sure you've read the previous chapter (which I added yesterday) before you read this - it will sort of spoil the end of Chapter 14 if you read this first without realising.
> 
> Also, this chapter is something of a little interlude between the two halves of this story, hence why it's so short!
> 
> Oh, and finally, I love each and every person who reads this, especially those who are commenting and leaving kudos. Much love to you all.

From: johnhwatson48@hotmail.co.uk  
Sent: 24 June 04:17  
To: sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Subject: –

 

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_I’ve read your website many times and find it fascinating. I know you like puzzles, so I’m hoping you can help me out with my problem._

_I have a friend and colleague who is suffering from quite a severe eating disorder. He has sort of told me how he developed this disorder but I do not fully understand why, and I also do not know how to help him get better. I have some experience in this area and have been reading books and articles about it, but my colleague is quite a unique person and I’m not sure if any of the usual methods will help him._

_Having seen what you can do I am sure that you can help me solve this, and I am willing to do anything to help him get better._

_Yours sincerely,_

_J.H.W._


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just thought I'd do a bit of an update - I reckon we're probably about halfway through by now. I have sort of intended the email to mark the midpoint (and really the turning point for Sherlock, you'll be glad to know) but as I haven't planned the chapters out exactly I really have no idea, and I am very prone to suddenly finding that I have spread something out over three or four chapters when I only meant for it to take up one. I can only hope that you lovely people don't get fed up with me!

John knows that, when he doesn’t have a case, Sherlock checks his email almost obsessively. He knows that Sherlock will have received the email. He also knows that nothing will be mentioned about it for at least two or three days. This knowledge doesn’t stop him from behaving slightly skittishly around Sherlock, though. He knows that Sherlock notices, of course he does, but neither of them mentions it. They’re back to playing the game again.

Unfortunately for John’s nerves, Sherlock is bored.

‘If you dare shoot at the walls again,’ John finds himself saying threateningly several times a day.

‘Oh, what?’ Sherlock snaps moodily every time. ‘Just remind me exactly what jurisdiction you have over me, John.’

‘It’s my gun,’ John reminds him, as he does each time. Apart from that, he doesn’t push it. He is still wary beyond belief of making Sherlock feel like he is being ‘looked after’. It would really help him out if Sherlock, within that vast brain of his, could grasp the concept of friendly or brotherly concern, but now does not seem like the right time to bring the whole thing up. He has to wait.

Never before has John, who has sat motionless for days on end in the desert, found a wait to be so indeterminable. They go round and round in circles, never once touching on the subject occupying the forefront of both of their heads. Sherlock skulks around the flat, angrily eating toast and drinking tea, before throwing himself down onto the sofa in a fit of sullenness and sulking for hours on end. He then comes to life and threatens to start experimenting on John’s belongings or destroying the furniture, while all the time John is forcing himself to stay seated in his armchair or go about his normal jobs without either grabbing his gun and shooting Sherlock or screaming at him to just stop the prevarication and start dealing with the actual issue at hand.

‘I’m bored, John,’ Sherlock says for the millionth time on Saturday morning, a little over 24 hours since John sent his email.

‘No,’ says John. ‘To whatever you’re about to suggest or ask permission to do.’

‘I don’t ask _permission_ ,’ Sherlock says indignantly, sounding disgusted at the very idea.

‘Maybe you should do,’ John mutters. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to keep buying new pairs of socks.’

Sherlock hears him, but for once he says nothing. John is grateful, at least until Sherlock starts pouting. John knows that look. He and that look are very great friends. Its appearance means that he’s usually about to be guilt-tripped into okaying some horrendous experiment.

‘No cases?’ he says quickly, jumping in before Sherlock has the chance to say anything at all. Sherlock narrows his eyes and looks peeved, but he goes with it for the moment, albeit in his usual charming manner.

‘If I had any cases, John, do you really think I would be in this situation?’

John can’t help but wonder quite which situation Sherlock is referring to.

‘Well, no,’ he replies honestly. ‘Nothing cold you can work on for Lestrade?’

‘Lestrade,’ Sherlock says slowly, pronouncing the DI’s name with contempt, ‘is still angry with me for the Slovakian kidnapper case.’

‘Ah,’ John frowns. ‘After all this time? Well, to be fair, Sherlock, you did behave pretty abominably.’

‘I solved it, didn’t I?’ Sherlock demands crossly. ‘He’s being infantile.’

John wisely chooses to make no comment on this.

‘Well, chin up,’ he says instead. ‘Something will come along soon, it always does. You could always help me out. I need to go to the supermarket today.’

It’s a flippant question, almost rhetorical, so he is shocked when Sherlock’s face creases thoughtfully.

‘Yes, okay,’ he says at length.

John is so shocked he almost falls out of his chair, which is quite a feat given its design.

‘What’s that?’ he says incredulously. ‘You’ll have to say that again, Sherlock, because what I thought I heard was you agreeing to go to the supermarket with me.’

‘Are you deaf as well as stupid, John?’ Sherlock demands impatiently, swinging himself of the sofa and disappearing to get dressed.

John sits in a sort of amazed stupor. It takes him at least two minutes to come to his senses again, but when he does he is infinitely glad that he didn’t make some ridiculous remark in response to Sherlock. This is all part of Sherlock trying to make himself better, and it seems like a pretty good strategy to John.

Food has become threatening in his friend’s head, and he needs to reverse that. Food shopping is an excellent method. It will also get Sherlock out of the flat, which he has barely left in the past month. Has it really been almost a month since the chase down on the docks which finally alerted John to Sherlock’s condition? He supposes that it must have been, although in many ways it feels like both an exponentially longer and a much shorter period of time.

When Sherlock reappears in the living room, he is dressed in a suit for the first time in weeks. John makes no comment on it. He gets to his feet and swiftly locates his coat, wallet and keys.

‘Right,’ he says matter-of-factly, as if they do this every week. ‘Shall we go?’

***

Three minutes in, and Sherlock is already regretting his decision to accompany John. How do people do this every week? It is so unspeakably dull and predictable. He’s on the verge of starting to deduce people around him to stave off imminent death by boredom when John reappears at his side.

‘Sorry I took so long, there was a queue for the trolleys,’ John says. ‘Shall we get started then?’

‘What?’ Sherlock looks down in disgust at John’s empty trolley. ‘Haven’t you finished yet?’

‘Erm,’ John says. He sounds amused, and suspiciously like he’s trying to bite back giggles. He really shouldn’t bother; it’s a pointless exercise as Sherlock always knows anyway. ‘No, Sherlock, I have not finished. I have not even started yet. Shopping takes a little longer than five minutes, you know.’

_Three and a half,_ thinks Sherlock savagely. _If you’re going to be a smartarse, John, at least get the specifics right._

Out loud, he says, ‘Really? How very dull.’

‘Yes,’ John agrees. He still looks amused, damn him. ‘Very dull indeed, but that’s called being a grown up, Sherlock. Are you familiar with the concept?’

‘You are neither clever nor amusing,’ Sherlock informs him, stalking into the shop.

The inside of the supermarket proves to be just as dull as the entrance. There are simply hordes of tedious people behaving in highly foreseeable ways. Who cares that much about the shape of a potato, anyway?

‘Are you going to help me then, or not?’ John inquires, catching up with him and bumping his back and legs with the trolley.

‘Very mature,’ Sherlock glares at him.

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ asks John pleasantly, smiling up at him.

‘I suppose I might as well, seeing as I’m here,’ Sherlock says sullenly. ‘What do you want me to get?’

‘Can’t you deduce it?’ John says, a grin slowly forming on his hatefully smug little face.

***

John stands in the middle of the supermarket, endlessly bemused at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, in his ridiculous coat even in June, abusing vegetables as he crams them into a plastic bag. On the mostly silent walk to the supermarket, John decided that he was going to behave as normally as possible and not tread lightly around Sherlock, as that would most definitely not be appreciated.

‘There you go,’ Sherlock stomps his way back over to John and the trolley. ‘Three carrots, a bag of onions and one head of broccoli. That’s what you require, I presume. Now, are you actually going to engage in any shopping or am I here to run around for you today?’

‘Not at all,’ John says quickly. ‘And yes, that’s exactly what I wanted. Thank you.’

‘Obviously,’ Sherlock sniffs. ‘Now, where next? I want to get this infernal business over as soon as possible.’

‘You’re the one who wanted to come,’ John reminds him. ‘And seeing as you are here, what do you want? We don’t just have to get what I need to get. Choose some stuff that you’d like.’

Sherlock’s determined stance wobbles for a fraction of a second, but he regains his composure so quickly that John’s almost not sure if he imagined it or not. Almost.

The rest of the shopping trip is entirely uneventful. John goes about his business as normal, gathering up fruit and milk and sausages and bread and cereal and tins of this and that. Sherlock flits in and out of his awareness, popping back every few minutes to deposit something new in the trolley. John tries not to watch him too hard, as there’s no doubt that Sherlock will notice him if he does, but he does pick up on him standing and studying various products with an unreadable expression on his face.

Overall, John deems the trip a success. Sherlock does insist on purchasing three times their usual amount of milk, muttering something about an experiment, but John is so relieved to see him interacting with food in a completely normal Sherlockian manner that he cannot bring himself to say no to anything. Whatever Sherlock wants, he gets.

Which is how they end up with three bulging bags of runner beans, an extra-large tub of blueberry ice cream, five tins of salmon, a white chocolate Easter Egg (God only knows where Sherlock procured that from), two different types of baby food, a large bottle of olive oil, some ready-made cauliflower cheese and a packet of poppy seed bagels, along with several new pairs of socks from the clothing section, which John finds on his bed later that day.

The bill is astronomical and the cupboards are jam-packed, but John can’t find it in himself to care. He doesn’t allow himself to get too overexcited, but it’s a huge step. Instead, he preoccupies himself with imaging exactly what Sherlock is planning to eat and what he’s planning to experiment on. That trail of thought takes him to worrying places, so he quickly stops himself and tries to distract both his hands and his mind by doing some cleaning.

He can’t, however, distract himself from the growing feeling of pride he’s feeling. As much as John wishes that Sherlock would let him help, he cannot do anything but admire the job his friend is doing on his own. Of the fact that the psychological side of it all needs addressing he is in no doubt, but he won’t take away from Sherlock’s achievements thus far. 

John also can’t help wondering when exactly Sherlock will bring the email up, as he is almost certain it will occur eventually. He pondered the wording long and hard in the early hours of Friday morning, particularly debating the use of the word ‘help’, before deciding that if Sherlock was going to knowingly project his problems onto an imaginary person then he could at least do it as accurately as possible. John does want to help, and Sherlock needs to realise that there’s no shame in accepting that help.

As it turns out, it only takes until the next evening for Sherlock to raise the matter.

***

Sherlock is contemplating. He sits with his hands pressed together from palms to fingertips and holds them up in front of his mouth thoughtfully. It’s a bit beyond his usual remit, admittedly, but the premise is somewhat intriguing. And seeing as he has nothing else on…

‘John,’ he says.

From across the room John looks up from his armchair, where he is sitting reading something dull and mundanely predictable, probably the sports section of the newspaper. Sherlock can see some of the headlines from where he is sat, and they’re all so inane that he wants to blow up some chemicals to express his feelings on the matter.

‘What is it?’ John asks, scrunching the newspaper up in his lap. Sport might be puerile nonsense and a pathetic attempt at entertaining the masses, but Sherlock still internally winces at John’s treatment of the newspaper. Is it really that hard to fold something? Not that he ever bothers, of course, but John should know better.

‘Potential case,’ Sherlock informs him. ‘Obviously.’

‘Oh,’ John seems to be working harder than normal to keep his facial muscles in check. ‘Is it from Lestrade, or on the website?’

‘The website, of course,’ Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes as he does so. His phone hasn’t gone off. Is John that much of an idiot?

‘Tell me about it,’ says John, looking cautiously interested. Sherlock is careful to ignore how guarded John is being.

‘I have received an email,’ Sherlock announces.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait than usual guys, I got busy with end-of-term stuff. Please feel free to blame my university. The fact that I am now on holiday should in theory mean I can update frequently but there may be the small issue of my exams in a couple of months, which unfortunately I should probably start preparing for... Ah well, procrastination in the form of continuing to write this will definitely occur.

Sherlock lies on the sofa, thinking deeply. Last night John had reacted positively to the idea of a new case, as Sherlock had known that he would. And if he showed a little more enthusiasm than he usually did, well then Sherlock was careful not to notice that. There’s no reason for John to be any more enthusiastic about this case than any other, after all.

‘John,’ Sherlock says suddenly.

There is no reply.

‘John,’ Sherlock says again, five minutes later.

When there is no reply after the fourth time of asking, Sherlock deigns to open his eyes and look around the room. No John. Sherlock tentatively probes the corners of his mind for information. Although he is getting better at not instantly deleting any useless information given to him by John, or things which John laughingly deems ‘important’, he can’t promise to retain everything. With no knowledge on where John might have gone being forthcoming, Sherlock concludes that he has probably gone to work. How inconvenient of him. They haven’t had a case in _months_ , or at least a few weeks, and now one has finally appeared, John has decided to go to work. It’s almost rude.

When John returns that evening – _yes, work, obviously_ – Sherlock is still lying in the same position on the sofa.

John throws his coat and back down onto the floor and looks across at Sherlock.

‘How’s the case going then?’ he asks casually, heading into the kitchen to put the kettle on. For the last week and a half, John has carefully been avoiding asking Sherlock anything about what he’s eaten during the day when he gets back from work or the supermarket or the pub. It probably helps that at least half the time Sherlock hasn’t yet noticed that he’s gone by the time he comes back.

By the time he’s filled the food kettle up and flicked the switch, there’s still been no reply. He goes and leans in the doorway to the living room, frowning.

‘The case, Sherlock,’ he says, slightly louder than before. ‘How’s the case?’

‘Thinking,’ Sherlock informs him, without opening his eyes. ‘Tea please, John.’

John has got out two mugs and poured out the milk before he realises what he’s doing. Then he freezes with the spoon in the sugar packet. He runs through the conversation in his mind again. _Tea please, John._ That’s the first mention of food from either of them since John’s realisation the previous Friday, a whole ten days ago. Hastily, John dumps sugar and protein powder into Sherlock’s mug and carries it out to him.

‘Tea,’ he says.

‘Put it on the coffee table,’ Sherlock says vaguely, waving a hand without opening his eyes.

‘Don’t,’ John hesitates minutely. ‘Don’t you think you should drink it before it gets cold?’

He holds his breath. Having been unsure about exactly what constitutes ‘help’ in Sherlock’s head, he has erred very much on the side of caution in recent days. He doesn’t know if a suggestion to drink something sooner rather than later could be construed as ‘looking after someone’ and, even if it does count, whether or not Sherlock will mind. He asked for the tea, after all.

After a long pause during which John barely breathes, Sherlock opens his eyes and his mouth at the same time.

‘Yes, I probably should,’ he agrees, reaching out a hand.

John is back in the kitchen before either of them speaks again. The ‘thank-you’ is quiet and almost questioning, as if Sherlock’s not quite sure how the word is supposed to sound, but John counts it as a victory.

Sherlock stays prone on the sofa while John cooks himself dinner, and he has eaten and washed up by the time Sherlock calls his name.

‘Yes?’ he says, peering through the doorway with a tea towel in his hands.

‘Sit down,’ Sherlock commands him. He’s sitting up by now. ‘I need to talk to you about the case.’

John ignores the jolt that shoots through him.

‘Give me five minutes,’ he says. ‘And then I’ll be with you.’

‘Dull,’ Sherlock replies. ‘Hurry up.’

‘Talk to the skull!’ John calls back from the kitchen.

‘The skull is dull,’ Sherlock says morosely. ‘You’re much better.’

John tells himself that it is entirely ridiculous to be so pleased at being compared favourably to the cranium and mandible of a long-dead (he hopes) human being.

Five minutes later, he settles himself in his armchair with a cup of tea, registers the reproachful look from his flatmate and gets up to make a second cup of tea. He would be annoyed, but he’s too pleased.

‘So,’ Sherlock says, when he too is holding a cup of tea. ‘What are the facts?’

‘Erm,’ John begins intelligently.

‘Well,’ Sherlock continues as if he hasn’t heard him, which to be fair he probably hasn’t. ‘We know from the style of the email that the author is most likely to be a white, middle aged man – ’ John frowns at this ‘ – so we can probably safely assume that the friend and colleague to whom he refers is of the same gender and a similar age and background.’

‘That probably makes sense,’ John agrees slowly. He is quickly realising his mistake in not actually considering how this conversation may go. He has no idea how much Sherlock is going to pretend to know about the ‘friend and colleague’, and so no idea how much he himself should pretend to know. It also doesn’t help that he’s not sure how Sherlock is dealing with this. Has he deleted the fact that the email came from John and is therefore referring to himself, or is he just keeping up the act for John’s sake? John doesn’t know which of these scenarios would be preferable.

‘Of course it does,’ Sherlock says impatiently, cutting through John’s thoughts. ‘So, what have you found out for me? I depend on you for research, of course, so what have you discovered about this man that may be of use to me?’

‘Which man?’ John stammers, trying to buy himself some time. Why did he not think about this?

‘The friend and colleague, John,’ Sherlock sighs. ‘The man with the eating disorder. Are you not paying attention?’

‘Of course I am,’ John says quickly. ‘And erm, yes, I did some research for you. What would you like to know?’

‘Everything,’ says Sherlock irritably. ‘I can hardly trust you to decide what information is important and what isn’t.’

‘Right,’ John says, vaguely aware that he should be feeling offended but too wrapped up in thought to worry about that at the moment. ‘So. The man who sent the email told me that his friend has always been a very private and independent person, so when the two of them became friends and the emailer started to display natural friendly concern for his colleague’s welfare, his colleague didn’t really know how to process it and tried to gain some control in his life by rigidly restricting how much he ate.’

‘Hmm,’ says Sherlock. John breathes a sigh of relief. That was obviously the right thing to say for now. ‘Now correct me if I’m wrong, but would that sort of behaviour not lead the man who sent the email to become more concerned about the subject of the email, sparking some kind of vicious cycle?’

‘Yes,’ John says quietly. It’s hard to hear this laid out so clinically and without any emotion on Sherlock’s behalf. He’s beginning to suspect that Sherlock isn’t acting, and he’s actually managed to bury the identities of their ‘client’ somewhere deep in his brain.

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock says again. And then after a moment, ‘Sentiment?’

‘Sort of,’ John nods slowly. ‘But maybe it’s more the case of just being normal human behaviour. If you start to like someone you then logically would want them to be okay, so you’d worry if it looked like things were going wrong for them. It doesn't have to be sentiment.’

‘But why?’ Sherlock asks bluntly. ‘It’s not like worrying can change anything.’

John sighs inwardly and tries to resist the urge to put his head in his hands.

‘Well, no,’ he admits after a moment. ‘Worrying itself can’t change anything, but the act of worrying can lead you to do things which can make a difference.’

There is a long pause. John flatters himself that he might have said something which has made quite an impression on Sherlock.

‘So,’ he says eventually, seeing that Sherlock has no intention of speaking any time soon. ‘Does that help you at all?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Sherlock says slowly. ‘There’s got to be something there. I need data. Get me data. I need to know everything there is to know about both men involved in this.’

‘Yes, alright,’ John agrees, thinking that this might be the easiest research project he’s ever likely to get from Sherlock. ‘And what are you going to do?’

‘I need to think,’ Sherlock says impatiently. The ‘of course’ is left implied. 

‘Right,’ John says. ‘I have one question, though.’

‘Of course you do,’ Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘Honestly John, can’t you try to keep up for once? What obvious point have you missed this time?’

John hesitates. He’s not sure if this is a good idea, but at the same time he has no choice but to ask anyway. He has to know that Sherlock is on the right track here, or if this whole charade will just be a waste of time.

‘What exactly is the case here?’ John asks tentatively. ‘Are you trying to solve why exactly this man developed an eating disorder, or are you trying to work out how his friend can help him to get better?’

John fancies that the look he gets from Sherlock is almost pitying in its nature, which he finds hopelessly ironic.

‘Do try to use your brain, John,’ Sherlock’s tone of voice is gently scolding. ‘Of course I have to solve both of those things at once. The answer to the first one leads almost directly to the answer to the second.’

‘But the man’s friend has already told us why he developed the eating disorder, hasn’t he?’ John deliberately layers the confusion in his voice. He thinks he might be overdoing it a little, but Sherlock makes no comment.

‘On a fundamental level,’ Sherlock says dismissively. ‘These things are always far more complicated than they seem on the surface. You should know that, John,’ he suddenly sounds stern. ‘You can’t have forgotten everything you learnt in medical school.’

John lets it slide. If it helps Sherlock to unravel the mystery of his own problem without even knowing it, he’ll take all the insults that are thrown his way.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock, as a boy, had always been observing. While not away at school, he and Mycroft had spent hours at a time sat in the park, or on a bench in town, just watching. They had had competitions, trying to ‘out deduce’ each other and Sherlock, from the age of eight, could always beat his brother when it came to buildings, places, incidents, accidents. Mycroft had had one advantage. He could do people. He could do circumstances and choices and motivations and emotions and secrets, and he could apply that knowledge to sway and manipulate people, without them even knowing that he was doing it. Sherlock, enraged by this, had practiced and practiced hard. He’d improved immeasurably, but people always remained his weakness, the one thing he found it hard to factor into a situation. Because people are irrational. They don’t always behave as they should.

Sherlock lies on the sofa, silently gnashing his teeth together. He has been working on this case for four days now, or trying to, but, for all the progress he has made, he might as well not have bothered. John, as good as his word, compiled a list of facts about the two men concerned, which Sherlock now runs through for what feels like the millionth time. 

Emailer met his friend/colleague around half a year ago as both were looking for someone to share a flat with. _Two men living together. Either one can observe the other without drawing any attention to that fact._

Instant friendship develops. _As John stated before, friend/colleague has not had close friends previously, so is therefore unsure as to how to deal with such a relationship._

Friend/colleague, while ‘keeping up appearances’, has always been a private person. _Wouldn’t take kindly to their life being interfered with in any way, however well-meaning it was. Refer to previous – clearly unsure as to how friendships work._

Emailer grew concerned about his friend/colleague’s ability to take care of himself, as he frequently went days without eating or sleeping. _Nothing wrong with that behaviour (on behalf of the friend/colleague)._

Friend/colleague has an overbearing older sibling who has expressed concerns along these lines before, albeit in a rather unconventional manner. _Can sympathise. Such prior experiences are likely to make the friend/colleague more prone to react upon ‘interference’ from a friend._

Friend/colleague seemed to start to construe normal, friendly concern about whether he had eaten or slept enough as ‘becoming dependent on someone’ and apparently stopped eating as a way of trying to regain the absolute control he’d always had over his own life. _What a fool. This is an overreaction. The two things don’t quite add up. There must be something John has not discovered, therefore there must be something that the emailer doesn’t know. Some other fact, some trigger. I will find it._

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Sherlock growls to himself. ‘The reaction is disproportionate to the events leading up to it. There is something missing. Another factor is involved here.’

He opens his eyes for the first time in several hours and glances around the living room. No John.

‘John,’ he says.

There is a scuffling noise in the kitchen. John is evidently home.

‘Yes?’ he asks, appearing in the doorway sixteen seconds later. ‘What is it? How’s the case going?’

‘I need to interview the emailer and his friend and colleague,’ Sherlock announces. ‘Separately, of course. Set it up.’

‘Can’t do that, Sherlock,’ John says quickly. He looks uneasy.

‘Why ever not?’ Sherlock demands. ‘It’s a simple enough request.’

‘Erm,’ John says idiotically. ‘The client wants to remain completely anonymous. And I said that would be okay, of course. Anything you want to know, I can find out for you.’

‘I cannot trust you to extract the relevant data,’ says Sherlock dismissively. Why is John being so difficult?

‘You can tell me what to look for,’ John suggests. As if that will help.

‘I can hardly do that when I don’t know what I’m looking for myself,’ Sherlock snaps. ‘But I will know it when I see it. Or hear it. You won’t. So kindly stop being difficult and arrange meetings with the two of them.’

‘You can’t speak to the friend and colleague, Sherlock,’ John says, a little desperately. Sherlock frowns. Talk about disproportionate reactions. ‘He doesn’t know what’s going on, remember? And eating disorders are delicate things. If you barge in there and start questioning him about it, it might send him deeper.’

Sherlock pauses for a second.

‘Might it?’ he asks slowly. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ John replies, looking at Sherlock as if he fears he’s a bit dim. As if. ‘Eating disorders are psychological things, Sherlock. There are triggers and other things that can really upset the person who is suffering from one. The people around them have to tread very carefully and your client has obviously been very careful to do so, so I won’t have you crashing your way in and ruining all his hard work.’

John stops speaking. He’s breathing hard as if he’s been chasing after a suspect. Sherlock frowns minutely. What’s got John so upset? Ah, of course, eating disorders are a form of addiction, so this must bring unpleasant memories of his sister’s own addiction to him. Sherlock frowns a bit harder. He should say something.

‘If,’ he starts slowly. ‘If this case is too, ah, upsetting for you, John, I will of course understand if you, erm, want to take more of a backseat role. I can take over emailing the client.’

He thinks he can, anyway. How hard can it be? On previous cases, before John, he learnt his lesson about the way that rudeness is conveyed via electronic communication and how it does not exactly endear oneself to one’s clients.

John, meanwhile, is looking flabbergasted.

‘I’m sorry, Sherlock,’ he stammers. ‘I didn’t realise you’d figured it out. I mean, I thought you’d deleted it. Let’s just forget it and –’

‘What?’ Sherlock demands. He is, for once, confused. Delete it? Why would he delete Harriet Watson’s drinking when it’s something to do with John? And come to think of it, ‘Figured out what?’

‘Nothing, nothing, never mind,’ John says hastily. ‘Are you, so, ah, are you still taking the case then?’

‘Of course I’m taking the case,’ says Sherlock impatiently. ‘I’ve taken the case, haven’t I? Past tense. Only I’m making no progress with it, because I don’t have enough data. I need to interview the client.’

‘I’ve told you, no,’ John sounds stern all of a sudden. ‘He doesn’t want that and you will respect his wishes here, Sherlock.’

‘Oh will I?’ Sherlock raises his eyebrows. Interesting turn of events. John is feeling very invested in this case, more so than he had expected given John’s natural doctor’s concern for a patient, despite the fact that the patient is not his, and even when factoring in the relationship between this case and his sister’s drinking.

‘Yes,’ John says firmly. Sherlock cannot read the look on his face. It’s at times like these that he reluctantly feels his need for his brother to inform him exactly what’s going on. Mycroft, damn him to the fiery pits of hell, could tell with one glance. Sherlock decides to try again anyway. 

‘If you,’ he says hesitantly. Best to get it over with, he supposes. ‘If you’re finding this case too painful to deal with, what with your sister’s addiction, then I really won’t mind if you don’t want to assist me for the time being. I’m quite capable of solving it on my own. It’s not like you add much on the brainwork side of things, anyway.’

There. He did it. He showed some nice, normal, friendly concern for a friend. And he almost made it without saying anything insulting. Well, you can’t have everything.

John, meanwhile, is making an odd choking noise. Sherlock looks at him with some concern.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, somewhat stiltedly. Despite the past few months, this sort of question still feels odd coming out of his mouth.

‘Yes, I’m fine thank you,’ John says eventually. Another unfathomable look has appeared on his face. It’s almost as if he does it on purpose, and it’s maddening. ‘But thanks for being worried, though. You’re right, this case is a bit too close to home for me, but I’ll be okay. Maybe it will help me to deal with some things, too.’

‘You need to deal with things?’ Sherlock frowns. ‘But it’s not your problem – it’s your sister’s. What is there for you to deal with?’

John seems to consider. To Sherlock’s mind, it appears to be hard work.

‘The thing is, Sherlock,’ John says, after several minutes of deep thought during which Sherlock fidgets impatiently. ‘When people you care about are hurting themselves, it brings all sorts of things down on you. First of all, obviously, you are very worried about them. Addictions like alcohol and drugs and eating disorders can kill people, you know, so you can’t help but wonder what will happen to the person you love, and idea that they might die terrifies you. Secondly, I’ve seen a lot of people try to deal with terminal illnesses of friends and family, and mostly they feel endlessly guilty, as if there’s some way in which they could have prevented what’s going to happen. In the vast majority of cases this is clearly absolute rubbish – if someone’s going to develop a brain tumour then it’s going to happen and it’s no-one’s fault, but people don’t think like that. I know you don’t like it, but people are irrational. We always look for ways to blame ourselves. Now, try and imagine how it feels if the person you love has developed an illness that you actually fear might be at least partially your fault. Addictions, and eating disorders, develop for a wide variety of different reasons and many of these are environmental. So you can’t help thinking “what if I’d done this” or “what if I did that differently” or “maybe if I’d just said this instead of that”. It’s mostly totally irrational and illogical, but that’s human nature. We worry about the people we care about and the people we love and we have to try and save them, even if they don’t want saving.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of my headcanon there for Sherlock's childhood, obviously. I tried to make it as non-specific as possible so it wouldn't interfer with other people's headcanons too much! Well, I hope everyone is still enjoying anyways :)


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock ponders the case all weekend, lying on the sofa and barely moving. John would worry about him if he wasn’t so used to such behaviour. As it is, he comforts himself with the fact that Sherlock is still eating. The routine hasn’t varied much since Sherlock began his latest case - and John doesn’t see why it should, since it is abundantly clear that Sherlock has deleted almost everything in this case pertaining to their situation - but now and then John thinks that some things must be bleeding through from Sherlock’s subconscious. He’s started asking for tea again, for instance, and on more than one occasion he has stolen a small amount of food from John’s plate. John hasn’t said anything, as despite what Sherlock might say he’s not actually stupid, but he dares to hope that it might be slowly settling in Sherlock’s mind that depending on someone other than yourself is, in fact, acceptable and definitely does not constitute a weakness.

Of course, these moments are hugely outnumbered by moments when this hope seems utterly forlorn. 

‘John,’ Sherlock snaps suddenly. ‘I don’t understand. Why can’t the emailer just keep his nose out? It’s none of his business after all. It’s not his job.’

John takes a deep breath. He previously thought he was a man of at least passably acceptable patience, but that was before he met Sherlock Holmes.

‘It’s not about it being a job, Sherlock,’ he says carefully.

‘Well then why would he bother?’ Sherlock asks, looking blank. John has to remind himself that Sherlock isn’t being wilfully obtuse – he’s genuinely confused about this side of human nature.

‘It’s just what people do,’ John replies.

‘Oh, I have had enough of that excuse,’ Sherlock retorts. ‘It’s utterly meaningless. People are different and, by definition, they therefore behave in different ways. It’s basic psychology, John.’

John considers that it’s a bit rich for Sherlock to be lecturing him, or indeed anyone, about basic psychology.

‘Well yes,’ he agrees slowly. ‘But there are some aspects of human nature which are ubiquitous. Everyone possesses them, to a greater or lesser extent.’

_Even you, Sherlock Holmes._

‘Are there?’ Sherlock asks sneeringly. ‘And what are those aspects, may I ask?’

‘Self-preservation, for one,’ John begins, slowly registering that he might run into a little difficulty here because Sherlock’s self-preservation instincts appear to be limited at best. ‘And the need to protect the people you care about from harm. Come on, you know this. We see it all the time. How many crimes do we see that are crimes of passion, or people going to extreme lengths to protect their children, or their partner?’

‘Duty,’ Sherlock mutters.

‘Duty?’ John echoes disbelievingly. ‘Come on, Sherlock, don’t be silly. It’s more than that. And even if, just for the sake of argument, we do attribute the need to protect people to mere feelings of duty, why can’t that be the reason that your client is worried about his friend and colleague?’

‘People don’t feel a sense of duty towards their colleagues,’ Sherlock frowns at him. ‘Do they?’

‘Well,’ John allows himself to get side-tracked, just briefly. ‘I think you’d say that they do, Sherlock. Think about the police, for example, and the Armed Forces. If Donovan was stuck in a burning building, don’t you think Lestrade would go in and pull her out, even if it meant risking his own life? That’s duty, yes, but there’s something more there as well. In Afghanistan, you shoot at people because if you don’t then they’re going to shoot you, or worse, they’re going to shoot your friends. That’s duty too, but you don’t do it because it’s your duty. You do it because you can’t face seeing your friends, your colleagues, your men in pain. You don’t want to watch them die. You care about them and want to save yourself the pain of watching them suffer, but more than that you want to save them the pain in the first place. It’s not duty, it’s love.’

He pauses, his chest heaving slightly. That went further than he intended. Sherlock appears to be stunned into silence. Predictably, it only lasts a minute or two.

‘So,’ he says slowly, clearly still processing all that information. ‘All the soldiers you were stationed in Afghanistan with, the ones you were supposed to be protecting, you loved them all?’

‘Yes,’ John says. ‘Well, no, not in the normal way, but things are different out there. Those men become your brothers, even the ones you’ve never met before, and you’d die for each one of them. You’d even die for the ones you actively dislike because they’d do the same for you.’

Sherlock is looking acutely interested now. John has never talked about Afghanistan like this before; he hasn’t been able to, but if this will help Sherlock then it’s the very least he can do.

‘Right,’ Sherlock nods. ‘So then, when they conflict each other, which of those basic human instincts you were talking about overrides the other one?’

It takes John a moment to understand.

‘Oh, you mean self-preservation or protecting people you care about?’ he checks. Sherlock nods. ‘Well, I think it depends on the situation,’ John continues slowly. ‘I’m sure every decent parent there ever was would say without hesitation that they would give up their own life to save their child, and I’m pretty sure that most spouses would too. The lines get a little blurry after that.’

‘And in Afghanistan?’ Sherlock asks quietly. 

‘Protection overrides self-preservation,’ John answers without hesitation. ‘Definitely.’

‘With friends and colleagues?’ Sherlock adds.

‘Yes,’ John nods. ‘If you’re in that line of work, definitely. You can’t do that kind of job otherwise.’

‘Right,’ says Sherlock. ‘Right. But what about not life-or-death situations? What if the threat is only perceived? Like an addiction or an eating disorder.’

So this is where this has all been leading. John has been wondering.

‘That doesn’t change anything,’ he says slowly. ‘It makes your actions perhaps less urgent and more, ah, cerebral, but it doesn’t really make a difference.’

‘Even if the person doesn’t want that "protection"?’ Sherlock spits out the word like it tastes vile in his mouth.

John just nods.

‘Surely if you care about someone the greater act of friendship would be to leave them to their own devices,’ Sherlock sniffs.

‘Not always,’ John says simply. ‘And in this kind of situation, it’s not about "protection" as such. It’s just about wanting the people you care about to be okay.’

‘I’m sure the friend and colleague is perfectly fine,’ Sherlock says firmly. ‘Maybe our client should use some of that famed self-preservation instinct and just back off.’

‘I told you, one overrides the other,’ John reminds him quietly. Then he pauses. It’s no good; he’s going to have to risk it. ‘You know, in Afghanistan, it’s seen as a weakness if you’re too proud to be able to accept help from your colleagues.’

Sherlock jerks his head up.

‘What are you talking about?’ he demands.

‘It’s what we’re all trained for,’ John continues, carefully not looking Sherlock in the eye. ‘Watching each other’s backs, so to speak. On the battlefield, no-one can do everything at once so you have to depend on both your superiors and your subordinates to help you out, or you’ll be dead within five minutes. You can’t go it alone. No-one can, not even the commander of the troops. They wouldn’t stand a chance.’

There is an odd look on Sherlock’s face. John’s stomach clenches.

‘So, different skill sets…’ Sherlock starts, before trailing off. John has never heard him sound so uncertain. He is suddenly desperate for his friend to understand. It’s never been more crucial.

‘Yes, definitely,’ he says. ‘But it’s more than that. On a fundamental level it’s another pair of eyes to see what you can’t see, because you’re occupied with something else. If you’re looking east and you don’t see the attack coming from the north-west, then that’s not a reflection on your abilities, it just means it wasn’t your job to spot it. If you run out of ammo and you’re not the nearest person to the supply box, it’s not a weakness to ask someone to help you replenish. That’s just good old fashioned common sense, a good distribution of resources if you will. And if you come to depend on that partnership, on that relationship, well then that’s just a sign that it works well and you shouldn’t change it unless something comes along that works better.’

‘Hmm,’ says Sherlock, after a short silence. ‘Yes, John, thank you, that has given me a lot of consider. Very useful indeed.’

‘Oh, well, good,’ John says lamely, a little taken aback at the abrupt end to the conversation. ‘Do you need anything – ’

‘No,’ is the brusque reply.

‘Right,’ John says, standing up. 

John has made himself a cup of tea and is starting to ponder what to have for dinner before Sherlock speaks again.

‘You’re good at making toast, aren’t you John?’

‘Yes,’ John answers slowly, hardly daring to believe it. He’s been making tea for Sherlock with increasing regularity for the past few days, but he hasn’t made him any food, or indeed really mentioned food to him at all, for over two weeks.

‘Well,’ Sherlock sounds a little unsure of himself, but only so as John or Mycroft would be able to notice. ‘Perhaps you could utilise your particular skill set while I utilise mine?’

Under other circumstances, John would have a ready joke to hand about Sherlock’s skill set encompassing lying on the sofa doing seemingly nothing at all.

‘Of course,’ is all he says, once he’s swallowed a couple of times. ‘Excellent distribution of resources.’ And then, hesitantly, ‘Tea?’

‘Obviously,’ says Sherlock.

John allows himself to rejoice in the fact that Sherlock has not only asked for something, but also accepted the offer of what he would deem to be help, for the first time in far too long. For the first time since all of Sherlock’s misconceptions about depending on other people came out into the open, in fact.

The tea and toast is made and at Sherlock’s side within five minutes. John leaves his friend to it. He knows that Sherlock has a lot to process, as does he himself.

No matter what Sherlock deleted from his brain upon reading the email, some of it has stuck with him. And at some point, he’s going to have to be made aware again of the fact that this case is all about him. John doesn’t know how he will go about doing that, and he doesn’t know if he’ll recognise the right time to do it, when it comes. At the back of his brain there has been a nagging hope that Sherlock will somehow flip out of it when they reach a crucial point, as if before he deleted everything, Sherlock planned ahead and implanted some kind of trigger in his mind to pull him out of it at the right moment. Despite these thoughts, John knows it is hopelessly unrealistic. The most likely scenario is that Sherlock deleted almost everything about the email in a fit of pique, retaining only the very basic details which then niggled at his mind until he decided he needed to solve the case.

John has no idea how Sherlock will react when he’s pulled back to reality. There’s one person who he knows might have an inkling about that, but that is not an option. Sherlock will not forgive him if he contacts Mycroft. Not that John has any doubts about whether or not Mycroft knows what’s going on. There is no way that his keen eyes, so much like his brother’s, will have missed what Sherlock’s, and John’s, did for so many weeks, nor will he read incorrectly into Sherlock’s conspicuous absence out and about in London these days. John doesn’t even know how long Sherlock has been struggling with this for – except for the fact that it developed after he moved in – but he has no doubt that Mycroft would be able to tell him, probably to the day. There is so much that Mycroft could tell him. Is this is a reoccurrence of an older issue? Did Sherlock have this problem as a teenager, for instance? Does Mycroft have any ideas on how to help Sherlock? They are brothers, after all.

However tempting it might be, John has never been clearer about anything then he is about the fact that he cannot ask Mycroft for help. Apart from the fact that he would never be forgiven, he doesn’t know how much a part of the problem Mycroft might be. Sherlock named his eating disorder after his brother, after all, and the reasons that Sherlock has given for the development of his disorder could just as easily apply to Mycroft’s presence in his life as they do to John. John has had plenty of time to think over the past few weeks, and it has been slowly dawning on him that all of Sherlock’s snide remarks about his brother’s weight might not just be harmless sibling rivalry after all.

John’s thoughts are, as usual, interrupted by Sherlock.

‘John,’ he says. ‘John. Why would my client need to ask me for help? He knows his friend and colleague far better. Why can’t he help him himself? He obviously wants to.’

John hesitates.

‘Sometimes,’ he says slowly. ‘Sometimes we can’t help the people we want to help the most, because they don’t want us to. Maybe they don’t want us to see them in a vulnerable state, or maybe they don’t want to be a burden. It can be better to let help come from somewhere a bit unexpected.’

‘But isn’t this a bit unorthodox?’ Sherlock frowns. He’s still out of his comfort zone. ‘People don’t normally consult detectives to help solve addictions and the like.’

‘No,’ John admits. ‘But your client obviously knows what is most likely to work for his friend.’

‘So he’s just trying to help?’ Sherlock checks. 

It hurts John that Sherlock needs this confirmed, but he nods anyway.

‘And there’s unlikely to be any kind of ulterior motive behind this?’ asks Sherlock.

‘None at all,’ John says firmly, hiding how taken aback he feels. What sorts of relationships has Sherlock has in the past that make him think that everyone who might want to help could have an underlying reason for it? ‘Definitely not.’

‘How can you be sure?’ Sherlock says. He’s asking so simply and honestly that John’s heart aches.

‘I am completely and utterly sure that his friend is only trying to help,’ John tries to placate him.

_Like I want to help you, you fool,_ he thinks desperately. Sherlock’s eyes meet his across the room and he knows that Sherlock knows what he is thinking. 

‘Okay,’ Sherlock says eventually. ‘I’ve got work to do, John. Go away.’


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines in this that you recognise belong to Steven Moffat and not me, sadly. I just took the liberty of utilising them for my own purposes.

‘There’s a case,’ Sherlock announces.

‘You’ve got a case,’ John reminds him, looking up from the newspaper. ‘Do you want the obituaries?’

‘I’ve got a case which I need to let rest for a while,’ Sherlock says almost triumphantly, while managing to completely ignore John’s question. ‘I acquired a lot of information yesterday which I need to let settle, and I could do with something else to distract me. Come, John.’

‘Are you sure?’ John hesitates. He doesn’t want Sherlock getting distracted when he thinks they might be making real, actual, tangible progress.

‘Don’t be silly, John, I’m perfectly capable of working two cases at once,’ Sherlock sniffs. ‘Now come on, what are you waiting for?’

‘Alright, alright,’ John is only partially reluctant as he gets up and reaches for his coat. ‘Are you going to tell me about this case, then?’

‘As usual, Lestrade is completely befuddled,’ Sherlock says gleefully, practically rubbing his hands together as they walk down the stairs. It’s his first proper case in over a month, not counting the comic book one, which he solved almost exclusively from the sofa.

‘And what do you know about it?’ John asks, as Sherlock marches out of the front door and looks around in search of a taxi.

‘Woman in her thirties, no obvious cause of death, covered in speckles,’ Sherlock says briefly.

‘Freckles?’ John echoes, as Sherlock once again demonstrates his mysterious ability to produce taxis from thin air.

‘No, John, speckles,’ Sherlock enunciates clearly for the dim-witted, climbing into the taxi. 

‘Right, that clears that up,’ John says sarcastically as the vehicle heads off towards St Bart’s. ‘So, who was she? What was her name?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Sherlock impatiently. ‘Why should I care? I’ll find out everything relevant about her for myself.’

‘Not even a name?’ John persists, more in hope than expectation.

‘Why does that matter?’ Sherlock says offhandedly. ‘It’s not like she’s going to answer to it anymore.’

‘Sherlock,’ John frowns. ‘You shouldn’t say that.’

Sherlock’s look of utter incomprehension makes John unexpectedly sad, although he doesn’t let on. A lot of people, including the vast majority of Scotland Yard, think that Sherlock is undeniably and unrepentantly rude because he can’t be bothered with manners and while this is certainly true sometimes, John sees him struggle daily with social clues and etiquette such as this. Sherlock is so at odds with the world, and it’s become John’s job to guide him through. He doesn’t mind a bit.

Lestrade is waiting for them in the morgue.

‘Thanks for coming, guys,’ he says wearily as Sherlock marches in, completely ignoring him, leaving John to acknowledge the greeting.

Sherlock gets to work with his little magnifying glass and John is content to stand and wait, knowing he’ll be called upon when necessary.

‘Haven’t seen you two in a while,’ Lestrade says casually, as the two of them watch Sherlock work.

‘No,’ John agrees. ‘We’ve been busy, though. Had a couple of cases, you know.’

‘Uh huh,’ Lestrade says. He’s a bit distracted by keeping a close eye on Sherlock, like one would a toddler. ‘I read the comic book one. And just how much of that stuff is over-exaggerated?’

‘None of it,’ John blinks at him. ‘Honest. Come on, you of all people should know that. Life with Sherlock is stranger than fiction. I couldn’t make it up.’

Lestrade laughs.

‘I ‘spose not,’ he says genially. ‘How are you doing, Sherlock?’

‘John,’ is Sherlock’s response, without looking up. When John hesitates for a fraction of a second to look at Lestrade for permission – a hard habit to shake – he snaps his fingers impatiently. ‘Come on, John.’

‘Go ahead,’ Lestrade says, although John is already heading over towards the corpse.

‘What is it then?’ asks John, staring alternately at Sherlock and the corpse.

‘Cause of death?’ Sherlock prompts.

‘Right,’ John says, bending over the corpse in interest. While he’s working, Sherlock stands and watches him, sniffing slightly. He knows something is coming.

‘Do people actually read your blog?’

There it is.

‘Where do you think our clients come from?’ John asks distractedly.

‘I have a website,’ Sherlock says stiffly.

‘In which you enumerate 240 different types of tobacco ash, nobody’s reading your website,’ John says, frowning slightly in concentration and not really paying much attention at all to the conversation, which is always a mistake when the conversation is with Sherlock. ‘Right then. Dyed blonde hair, no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are.’

He looks up, half expecting some quick-fire deductions already, but Sherlock is stalking out of the room. John catches Lestrade’s eye, sees the resignation there and then watches as Lestrade follows Sherlock through the door. Fantastic. Five minutes on a case and Sherlock’s already walked off in a sulk. It’s not like John really said anything. Not until later does it strike him that perhaps telling someone in the grips of an eating disorder, when their self-worth is already low, that nobody is interested in what they have to say, in what they’re good at is probably not the best plan.

John tries to make it up to Sherlock later, in the only way he can think of. An apology is no good. Sherlock doesn’t set much store by apologies and, even if he did, John knows that he wouldn’t want direct attention drawn to the incident, so instead he is extra effusive in his praise of Sherlock’s deductions. It doesn’t really take much work, to be honest, because they are as spectacular as ever. Sherlock makes no comment on John’s comments and he only acknowledges them in that he sniffs a bit more and rolls his eyes a little harder, but John knows that he’s secretly pleased.

***

It doesn’t take long to solve the case. Sherlock swirls around London happily, back in his element once more. It’s hard for John not to contrast the Sherlock of a little over a month ago, on their chase through the docks, with the current Sherlock. Today’s Sherlock has a good deal more energy, although still not the boundless enthusiasm of several months ago, but there are subtler things too, things that only John could pick up on, with his unique blend of medical training and his knowledge of his friend. Sherlock has more patience, his deductions are smoother and faster and he snaps less frequently at Sally and the others, although when his insults do come they are more thought-out and clever and much less brash. John never thought he’d be so glad to see Sherlock being a smart-arse.

With the case done, John tries to pull Sherlock back on track. He finds an opening that evening, when they’re back at home having finished Lestrade’s paperwork. 

‘Dinner, Sherlock?’ John enquires, somewhat tentatively. 

Sherlock has been nibbling on bits and pieces over the last three days, and that’s all John can really expect during a case, but he’d really like for his friend to eat an actual meal now, or at least Sherlock’s version of one. He’s just not sure how that will be received.

There is a pause in the movements in the living room.

‘What are you cooking?’ Sherlock asks, after a moment of silence.

‘I thought pasta with something,’ John says carefully. He thinks his efforts to keep his voice level are relatively successful. ‘Is there anything in particular you would like?’

‘No,’ replies Sherlock eventually. ‘I’ll have whatever you think.’

In the kitchen, John’s mouth falls open. Aside from a couple of microwavable things over the last week or so, Sherlock has not eaten a proper meal in weeks. The man seems to be able to exist on toast and dry crackers and bananas and tea.

Sherlock does eat dinner. He sits at the table with John and they eat in silence for several minutes. John does his best not to notice the anguished expression on his friend’s face. It’s nowhere near as bad as it was at the beginning of this whole process, but it’s still painful to see and it only serves to act as a reminder of how far there is to go.

‘What about this other case then, Sherlock?’ John eventually asks casually, breaking the silence. ‘How are you getting on with it? Any luck with the whole “letting it rest” thing?’

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he looks up from his plate.

‘You’re very invested in this case, John,’ he announces. ‘More so than a mere link between the case and your sister’s situation would suggest.’

‘Am I?’ John stammers, thrown slightly. He thought that was dealt with, and the cover story of his sister’s drinking was a bloody good one which he should’ve thought of himself.

‘Yes,’ says Sherlock thoughtfully, pressing his hands together and holding them under his chin. ‘Very much so. And why is that?’

‘Surely you should know why,’ John blusters. He has no idea what to say. There is so much he hasn’t foreseen.

‘I am not omniscient, John,’ Sherlock says sternly. ‘I know there are many in Scotland Yard who might believe that, but I thought you were more intelligent than them. I need data and so far my data on this matter is insufficient, so why don’t you explain?’

John knows the expression on Sherlock’s face, and he knows that he is not getting out of this one.

‘I had a friend, once,’ he says slowly. ‘A very good friend, and he had the same problem.’

‘Exactly the same problem?’

If Sherlock’s eyes get any narrower then they’ll be mere slits in his face.

‘Yes,’ John says quietly, after a moment’s thought. What good can lying do now?

‘And what was your solution?’ Sherlock’s voice is now dangerously low. John swallows.

‘I got him help,’ he answers simply. He knows it’s not enough, he just knows, but he can’t say anything else right now. This cannot all fall apart, it cannot.

‘How did you do that?’ Sherlock probes him further, as John knew he would. The look on Sherlock’s face is unreadable.

‘I asked for it,’ John whispers. ‘I asked for help from someone who I know, knew. Someone good at solving puzzles.’

That little slip of the tenses is surely the final nail in the coffin. Sherlock knows. Of course Sherlock knows. Sherlock has remembered. For once, Sherlock cannot drag a mask up to cover his features and the truth is written all over his face.

It’s a surprise to John that Sherlock forces down every last mouthful of his dinner before shoving his chair back and leaving the room. He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know how the Speckled Blonde case ends, look on John's blog! I hope you are enjoying :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should probably give some warning for this chapter, not trigger wise but possibly comprehension wise. I found it very difficult to write - a lot of stuff had to be unravelled and getting my head around Sherlock’s thought processes was a little bit of a nightmare. I’m just really hoping that it all makes sense, so I apologise if anyone gets lost in Sherlock’s thoughts, as I did a fair number of times! Maybe this is what it’s like to be inside his head all the time - no wonder he doesn’t sleep.

It was John. Oh God, it was John.

_It was John._

Sherlock knows the words off by heart.

_‘I have a friend and colleague who is suffering from quite a severe eating disorder. Having seen what you can do I am sure that you can help me solve this, and I am willing to do anything to help him get better.’_

_John sent that email. It was John._

_What does that mean, John? You’ll do anything. What do you_ mean _?_

_He means me. He’ll do anything to help me. Why would you do that, John? Mycroft doesn’t pay you. You refused his money._

_I don’t understand._

_You think I have ‘quite a severe eating disorder’, do you?_

_You know you do,_ says Mycroft, interrupting as usual. _You know you do, Sherlock._

_But why does John care about me? Why is he worried? Beyond his normal caretaker tendencies, that is._

Sherlock remembers some of John’s words from before. Perfect recall, of course.

‘We worry about the people we care about and the people we love and we have to try and save them,’ John said.

Sherlock determinedly ignores the ending to that sentence. And come to think of it;

_Save me from what?_

_From yourself, Sherlock, are you really so dense?_ Mycroft asks, softly gloating.

‘I’d figure it out if you would just shut up,’ Sherlock forces out from between gritted teeth.

Mycroft falls silent. Sherlock can still feel his presence, though. He has always been able to feel his presence.

_John cares about me. Question - why does he care? Obvious answer - John is a soldier and a doctor, his only job has ever been to care. Although, perhaps not so obvious - in those situations he is paid to care. Not so here, as he refused Mycroft’s money._

_Why would John refuse payment? This is the logical path if he was merely going to be my flatmate, but if he will insist on this ‘caring’ malarkey, then why not profit from it? Illogical, although John has admittedly never been the most logical of people. I must find out why. Maybe he is regretting his previous decision. Mycroft could offer again. John wouldn’t be to know that it’s just a test._

_Fallacies aside, the inevitable conclusion is this - John cares. Question - what does this mean?_

Sherlock frowns up at the ceiling unseeingly. He has never had a friend before, not a proper one anyway. He doesn’t know what the rules are. Are there even rules? 

_There must be rules, otherwise how do people know where they stand? How do I know where I stand? Answer - I don’t._

_There is evidence. There must be evidence. There’s always evidence._

Sherlock thinks.

_Piece of evidence number one - when people are with friends, they’re happy. Friends are a good thing. Friends are people that you like. Evaluation - these criteria apply to the relationship between John and myself. Conclusion - John must like me. Second conclusion - I like John. Third conclusion - John and I are friends. Extra evidence to support the conclusions drawn - John referred to me as his ‘friend and colleague’, and the fact that he stated ‘friend’ first means that this is primarily how he views me._

_Piece of evidence number two - despite friends being people you like, the relationship can be somewhat one-sided, as shown by the relationship between Molly and myself. (Are Molly and I friends? Must consider this at another time.) Conclusion - there can be ulterior motives for helping/liking someone. Extra evidence to support the conclusion drawn - every interaction I have ever had with another human being. The statistical likelihood of John being the one anomaly who does not fit with the previously gathered data - small. Question - what are John’s ulterior motives, if any?_

_Piece of evidence number three - in contradiction to piece of evidence number two, John says that no ulterior motives are necessary. Conclusion - perhaps not everyone wants something in return. Steps to be taken - further research required. Must consult John. Extra evidence to support the conclusion drawn - none._

_As pieces of evidence two and three are contradictory in nature, the better supported conclusion (that drawn from piece of evidence number two) must be favoured as being correct until such a time as this can be conclusively disproved. Question - which conclusion is correct?_

Sherlock groans quietly. His head is a throbbing mess of noise and, for once in his life, he desperately wants to sleep, but he knows that he needs to first untangle the chaos in his head before it overwhelms and strangles him.

_The next thing to evaluate - assuming at least some level of ‘friendship’ between us, why would this lead John to be concerned about me and my wellbeing? What good does worrying do? What good does caring do?_

The words rise up in Sherlock’s brain easily. He heard them so many times as a boy.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock,_ whispers Mycroft. _You know that. It leads people to do the most extraordinary things, and not necessarily in a good way._

But Sherlock shakes his head, trying to drown out Mycroft. He knows that John said something different, something to the opposite effect.

‘Worrying itself can’t change anything, but the act of worrying can lead you to do things which can make a difference,’ John told him.

_This is debatably true (some people are not equipped to help and only make the situation worse), but does that make it worth it? What if no-one cared and everyone just took care of themselves?_

_The world would be a mess, Sherlock,_ Mycroft scoffs. _I taught you better than that, surely._

_But John knew I would be angry. He approached me before, several times, and tried to help. I pushed him away eventually. Why would he do this? Self-preservation, he said, and this does not fit._

_And what else did he say?_ Mycroft asks.

Sherlock scowls. He doesn’t need Mycroft leading him by the hand. He remembers John’s words well enough.

‘One overrides the other.’

_John told me that; he said that if you care about someone then you care more about their wellbeing than you do about your own. Taking the metaphorical bullet._

Sherlock pauses here, his brain stuttering slightly as he wonders if John took a bullet for someone, out in Afghanistan. It seems a disservice to his colleague - his friend? - that he doesn’t know this.

_John would do that. He would take the bullet for me. He did._

_Don’t flatter yourself,_ Mycroft interrupts snidely. _He also said he would take a bullet for someone he hated, remember?_

‘Push off, Mycroft,’ Sherlock says sternly. He hardly hears himself speaking but he knows his mouth is forming an approximation of these words.

_Piece of evidence number one - John said that the instinct to protect others often overrides self-protection, particularly when the other person concerned is someone you care about. John and I are (possibly, probably?) friends, so I must (should?) fall into that category. Conclusion - John’s natural instinct to protect has led him to be concerned for my wellbeing._

_Piece of evidence number two - John does not have to like the person he is trying to help. Conclusion - his actions alone do not indicate friendship._

The little spasm that runs through his chest at this conclusion is surprising to Sherlock. He pulls up the final words of John’s email again.

_‘I am willing to do anything to help him get better.’_

Surely that indicates more than duty.

_Or does it? John is conscientious. He would go above and beyond, but that doesn’t stop it from being duty._

_Most likely conclusion - John tried to help me because he wants me to get better, but feelings of duty may or may not be involved. Next question to evaluate - does he have an ulterior motive?_

_All evidence gathered over the years suggests overwhelmingly that people have ulterior motives for developing the hazy relationship known as ‘being on speaking terms’. This evidence is supported by numerous personal experiences. Question - what are John’s ulterior motives?_

_Initial ulterior motive for making my acquaintance - John needed somewhere to live in London but could not afford to live on his own due to the size of his pension (must speak to Mycroft about increasing soldiers’ pensions). Ulterior motive for ‘being on speaking terms’ - life in the flat is more bearable if both residents can communicate in a civilised fashion. Ulterior motive for becoming my colleague - lack of excitement in new civilian life. Ulterior motive for caring about my wellbeing - ???_

Sherlock scowls. He runs through several possibilities before rejecting and then deleting each one.

_If I cannot find an ulterior motive, perhaps there isn’t one._

_But why would anyone want to be your friend without an ulterior motive, Sherlock?_ Mycroft asks nastily.

More of John’s words push their way to the forefront of Sherlock’s brain, determined to be heard.

‘I am completely and utterly sure that his friend is only trying to help,’ John said, five nights ago.

_‘I am completely and utterly sure that I am only trying to help you.’_

Sherlock’s brain, as it has been trying to do for some time, shies away from the word ‘help’. He pulls it back into line quickly - he can deal with that in a minute.

_Conclusion - John is unlikely to have an ulterior motive for sending me the email. Second conclusion - John and I must be friends. Third conclusion - John is therefore unlikely to be doing this purely out of duty._

Sherlock’s head is spinning. Are John and he friends? The evidence pointing towards this seems to be mounting up, but he cannot be totally sure.

_Final question - where is the shame in accepting help?_


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgh, these chapters from Sherlock's POV are so difficult and confusing. His head is such a mess! Some of his issues should be starting to become a little clearer now. That's my intention anyway, and I can only hope that I have managed to sort everything out into something approaching a coherent narrative. Apologies if this is not the case...
> 
> Well, I hope you enjoy, and an early 'Happy Easter' to everyone who celebrates it :)

_Where is the shame in accepting help?_

Sherlock’s brain rebels at the question. Every instinct he possesses, everything he’s honed over the years, is telling him he’s on dodgy ground.

_I don’t need help. I am Sherlock Holmes. I need no-one. What was it John said? ‘I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone.’_

_Not true,_ hisses Mycroft. _Not true. You’ve always needed someone to clear up your messes, haven’t you Sherlock?_

‘Just because you can’t keep your meddling nose out,’ Sherlock hisses back. 

He won’t have this. He doesn’t need anyone. John can want to help all he likes, but that’s as far as it is going. End of story.

***

By the time Sherlock has been silent in his room for over two hours, John is actively worried.

‘You idiot, Watson,’ he whispers to the dark, silent living room which is utterly bereft of a lanky, sulky detective. ‘You complete moron. You cocked that up good and proper, didn’t you?’

This wasn’t the plan. Although, if John’s honest with himself, there wasn’t exactly any plan at all. His best plan, obviously gone utterly wrong now, had been to play it by ear. 

The infuriating thing is, Sherlock would have had it all figured out before he’d even typed the first sentence of the email. And that’s why John had to do it. Perhaps the only person who can get inside the head of genius is another genius. Or even the same genius. Either way, the only person who can solve this is Sherlock. 

John just hopes he hasn’t completely ruined everything. To have all that progress come to naught would be soul destroying, not just for him but Sherlock too.

He sits in the dark and worries.

Four hours after he last saw Sherlock, John gives up and goes to bed.

***

When Sherlock leaves his room, John is in the kitchen. As it’s midday on a Saturday this is hardly surprising, but they still stare at each other for several moments, separated by a table and at least a thousand words.

‘Sleep well?’ John eventually asks. He winces at his pitiful attempt at a jovial tone of voice.

Sherlock, for his part, completely ignores the question.

‘John,’ he says abruptly. ‘Are we friends?’

He knows the answer in an instant when John’s face falls. There must be something open in his tone of voice because John doesn’t look for a second like he thinks Sherlock is joking.

‘I’d have said so, yes,’ John replies slowly. ‘Of course we are, why?’

Sherlock says nothing. His mind is too busy whirring away.

_Conclusion that John and I are friends - proved correct via confirmation from John. Therefore, the conclusion that John wants to help me because we are friends (by virtue of the self-preservation instinct being overridden) - also proved correct by inference._

‘Sherlock,’ John says insistently. ‘What is this about? What else would we be?’

Sherlock frowns. Evidently this is considered to be an obvious fact, so obvious that John is utterly bemused that Sherlock has to ask. Do people just know these things, then? Where is the _data_?

John is apparently not prepared to let this go. His voice has adopted a slightly hurt tone which Sherlock knows is genuine.

‘But what else would we be?’ John is saying indignantly. ‘We live together. We work together. We spend so much of our time together that most people think we’re romantically involved, and those that don’t agree think we’re shagging each other’s brains out every night of the week at the very least. Is it really so hard to realise that we’re friends?’

‘Yes, no,’ Sherlock says distractedly, which he knows is no answer at all, before turning back to his room and slamming the door behind him, leaving John open-mouthed and confused.

_John definitely considers us to be friends. The hurt in his expression and his tone of voice was not faked._

Sherlock is interrupted by a banging on his bedroom door.

‘Sherlock!’ John calls. ‘Sherlock, what is going on? I’m worried about you!’

Sherlock’s brain snarls at that.

_Like I need John Watson to worry about me._

John quickly realises his mistake and the knocking on the door grows more urgent.

‘Sherlock,’ he says desperately. ‘Come on, let me in!’

The door isn’t locked. Sherlock’s door doesn’t lock.

_Respect for personal boundaries, even when John himself is distressed._

Sherlock blinks, confused.

_This does not make sense. All the data indicates that John and I are friends, yet John should not want to be friends with me, so what is his ulterior motive?_

John is still at the door.

‘I’m sorry, Sherlock,’ he’s saying.

Sherlock blinks again.

_What, wait?_

‘I really I should apologise,’ John says quietly. Sherlock has no problems hearing him through the door. ‘And I am. Sorry, that is. I am sorry. Blimey, I’m making a mess of this.’

_What?_

‘I went behind your back,’ John continues. ‘I knew how you felt about my… interference in your situation and I went behind your back and tried to help anyway. I understand why you’re angry. I’m sorry.’

Sherlock frowns. John’s actions, in light of the recent confirmation that they are indeed friends, are perfectly reasonable. The self-preservation instinct is overridden, John said. Well, John only acted in accordance with that. Perfectly reasonable indeed.

_There’s no reason for me to be angry. None at all._

_But you are though, Sherlock, aren’t you?_ Mycroft says smoothly. _You’re angry enough that you don’t know how to deal with it, and yet you don’t really know why you’re angry._

Sherlock’s fists clench into balls. He is not angry.

_You’re feeling betrayed,_ Mycroft informs him. _You think that if John is your friend then he should respect your decisions and not try to interfere. Well I’m sorry, little brother, but that’s not how the world works._

‘It is for me,’ Sherlock hisses, so quietly that John won’t be able to hear him from where he’s still stood on the other side of the door. ‘It is for me.’

_You think you’re so special,_ Mycroft says. _You’re think you’re above everything, and it took John Watson to show you that you’re not. Didn’t like what you saw, did you little brother?_

Sherlock shakes his head vigorously. He’d rather deal with John right now than Mycroft. He reaches the door and opens it quickly enough for John to not have realised what he’s doing. When the door swings open roughly, John leaps backwards.

‘Sherlock,’ he says in relief. ‘I’m sorry. What’s the matter?’

‘You are contradictory,’ Sherlock growls at him. ‘You don’t make sense. Your body language says one thing and then the other. Now tell me, are we friends?’

John looks crestfallen again.

‘I thought we were,’ he says quietly. ‘What’s brought this on, Sherlock? Do you think that I shouldn’t have sent that email if we were friends?’

‘That is precisely not what I think,’ Sherlock snaps. ‘Once more you have managed to jump to entirely the wrong conclusion, John. How you manage to do it so often is, quite frankly, staggering. No, I think your actions are perfectly in keeping with what you perceive “friends” to do - interfering, meddling. Now tell me, what are your motives for this behaviour?’

Something appears to be dawning on John. Well, it’s about time he had a revelation about something. Now if he can just tell Sherlock the actual meaning behind his -

‘I said colleague,’ John says slowly. ‘In Sebastian’s office, you told him I was your friend and I corrected you and said I was your colleague.’

Sherlock starts. 

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ he asks, his words clipped.

‘I’m sorry,’ John answers miserably, clearly choosing to ignore Sherlock’s question. How infuriating. ‘I shouldn’t have said it, Sherlock, I’m sorry. It just sounded a little off, that’s all. If I told that git Sebastian that I was your colleague then it seemed like I had more right to be there. It was nothing more than that.’

There is a strange noise echoing in Sherlock’s ears. Something that he didn’t even know was weighing on his mind is suddenly lifted.

‘Sherlock,’ John is saying, looking concerned. ‘Sherlock, can you hear me?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock replies, feeling slightly dazed. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look good,’ John frowns. ‘I’ll get you a - ’

‘I said I’m fine,’ Sherlock snatches his arm away from John’s outstretched hand. 

John continues to look concerned.

‘Sherlock,’ he starts warily.

‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock repeats impatiently. ‘Fine.’

And he slams the door in John’s face.

_John says we are friends. John was not embarrassed by me in front of Sebastian. John says we are friends._

_There are still parts that don’t make sense,_ the treacherous little part of his brain affiliated with Mycroft reminds him.

Sherlock flings the door open again.

‘John,’ he says urgently. ‘You must answer my questions.’

John, who has not moved, nods.

‘Of course,’ he replies earnestly. ‘What is it?’

‘We are friends,’ Sherlock states.

‘Yes,’ John answers, despite the fact that it’s not a question.

‘And as we are friends your instinct to help other people overrode your self-preservation instinct, leading to your actions,’ Sherlock states again.

John looks a little alarmed at this clinical evaluation, but nods anyway.

Sherlock nods too, just once.

_So far, so good._

Now for the tricky bit.

‘Why are we friends?’ Sherlock asks.

‘What?’ John looks taken aback. ‘Why… what?’

‘Why are we friends?’ Sherlock repeats, irritated. ‘There’s no logical reason for you to be friends with me, so why? I need to understand.’

‘What?’ John says for the third time. Sherlock bites back an impatient retort. ‘We just are, Sherlock. We met, I liked you, you liked me, we spent time together and became friends. How do these things normally work?’

_I don’t know._

‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ Sherlock says, a little desperately. ‘Why would you be friends with me? You must have reasons, ulterior motives. Tell me.’

‘What you were saying the other day about ulterior motives,’ John says slowly, rubbing his hand on his forehead desperately. ‘You were genuinely asking. You genuinely thought that your client needed an ulterior motive to try and help his friend.’

‘Why else would he do it?’ Sherlock frowns. ‘Why else would you be my friend? What’s in it for you?’

‘What’s in it for me?’ John echoes. If he doesn’t stop repeating things then Sherlock is going to strangle him, friends or not.

‘I know some of your motives,’ Sherlock says quickly, before John can turn into any more of a parrot. ‘You needed a flatmate because you couldn’t afford rent on your own, obviously, and your post-military life was proving dull so you needed my work to provide you with an adrenaline fix every now and again - ’

‘You clot,’ John says.

Sherlock blinks. Seemingly pointless insults are normally more his area.

‘But,’ he says quickly, to cover his surprise. ‘There are clear motives, John. Even you cannot argue with them.’

‘Well of course I had reasons for moving in with you in the first place,’ John splutters. ‘Just like you had reasons for needing a flatmate, too. Everyone has motivations for getting to know people, Sherlock, otherwise no-one ever would. The need not to be lonely is inherently selfish, but it doesn’t mean that we are any less genuine about the people we like. Yes, I moved in with you because I couldn’t afford to live by myself and yes I followed you on that very first case because my life was beyond boring, but do you really think I would have stayed for months if I didn’t like you? All the intrigue and excitement in the world couldn’t keep me here if I thought you were a tosser. Yes, you can be a git at times but I’m not exactly sunshine and roses twenty-four seven. I get stroppy and have my moments. I’m live here and I work with you and spend time with you because I like you. I like you as a person. I like Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you see that?’

‘You were drawn to me because of the dangerous element of my work,’ Sherlock says, a little stiffly.

‘Well, yes,’ John admits. ‘But that’s a part of who you are, Sherlock. It was you who drew me in. No ulterior motives. I enjoy being around you and working with you. I don’t just put up with you for the rush of adrenaline.’

‘Well, obviously,’ Sherlock says briskly. ‘I know that. I know you like me. I’ve deduced that.’

‘But..?’ John says.

‘But, in my admittedly limited experience, liking someone often isn’t enough for people,’ Sherlock answers, a little reluctantly. ‘And sometimes even the liking part doesn’t appear to be especially important.’

John’s face spasms a little.

‘Look, Sherlock,’ he says firmly. ‘I don’t know who you’ve been friends with in the past, or who you’ve been on friendly terms with, but I am telling you now that proper friendships are not formed because they are merely beneficial to one person for whatever reason.’

‘I always suspected that,’ Sherlock says lightly, disguising his slight unease. ‘But, you see, I never needed anyone so it never bothered me that they weren’t exactly – how shall I put it? – they weren’t simply enamoured by my company, shall we say.’

‘What do you mean?’ John asks sharply, suddenly looking intensely worried. What’s brought this on? ‘If people were taking advantage of you, Sherlock…’

‘Well, they did mostly want help with their work,’ Sherlock admits slowly. ‘Does that count?’

The look of intense relief on John’s face is somewhat perplexing.

‘Anyway,’ Sherlock says hastily, because John is still looking at him with a strange amount of thankfulness on his face. ‘Thank you for clarifying. We are definitely friends, yes? And you have no ulterior motives for trying to… help me.’

He stumbles a little over the last part. His brain is still screaming in protest at that idea.

‘Very much so,’ John nods quickly, seeming to recover himself. ‘Is that it? Did you want to know anything else?’

‘That’ll do for now,’ Sherlock says, and slams the door in his face again.


	23. Chapter 23

John sits quietly in the living room. It is slowly dawning on him that he has never met anyone quite as insecure as Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, who dashes around London wrapped up in his coat and his unwavering confidence, but who is so unsure of himself and his self-worth that he cannot recognise a friend when it’s sitting in his living room drinking tea and helping him with cases. 

Sherlock claims to be a sociopath. John knows this is not true. He saw the look on Sherlock’s face at Sebastian’s cruel words at Shad Sanderson. Sherlock may not want to care what others think of them but, deep down, he does.

***

Sherlock’s head is pounding. No ulterior motives, that’s what John said. And Sherlock believes him. He can’t help it - there was something so open and trusting about John’s face and his replies, and anyway Sherlock is pretty damn good about knowing when he is being lied to.

John wants to help Sherlock because he _likes_ Sherlock. John wanted to help because he didn’t like seeing Sherlock in such a state (and he was in a state, he can admit that to himself now). John sees Sherlock as his friend and John helps his friends.

Help.

_I don’t need help._

Sherlock shudders. 

_Help is for the weak._

_‘In Afghanistan, it’s seen as a weakness if you’re too proud to be able to accept help from your colleagues.’_

John’s words echo around his head. And they make sense, they do, but at the same time as not making any sense at all. It’s only logical to - what were the words? - ‘utilise different skill sets’, but still…

_You’re too proud,_ says a voice in his head. It makes Sherlock jump violently. For once, it isn’t Mycroft who’s speaking. It’s John.

He has to talk to John again.

Half an hour after he last slammed the door in John’s face, Sherlock ventures out into the living room.

‘John,’ he says, to announce his arrival.

‘Sherlock,’ John says, looking around a little warily. ‘What’s the matter? Do you have some more questions?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says. ‘No. Tea?’

‘Uh, sure,’ John replies hastily. Sherlock knows that he’s surprised him. ‘I’ll get some. Anything else you’d like?’

‘No.’

John emerges from the kitchen five minutes later with two mugs, one of which he gives to Sherlock. Sherlock has grown quite accustomed to the taste of the extra sugar and the protein powder now.

‘So,’ John says, sinking down into his armchair. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing’s the matter,’ Sherlock spits at him. 

John barely flinches. He’s too used to mini outbursts like these to be bothered by them anymore.

‘Okay,’ he says, taking a sip of tea. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘I’ve worked some things out,’ Sherlock announces.

‘Right,’ John nods. Then, ‘Do you want to run them by me?’

‘I already know they’re correct,’ Sherlock frowns at him.

‘Well, good for you,’ John says. ‘I’m not going to criticise you. I’m just interested to know what you’ve figured out, that’s all. You know I like hearing your deductions.’

Sherlock looks momentarily surprised, but nods.

‘You like me,’ he tells John.

‘I do,’ John agrees. Does that really need saying?

‘So you would say that we are friends,’ Sherlock continues.

‘Of course,’ says John, frowning slightly. He doesn’t see how Sherlock can be unsure on this point.

‘And friends do things for each other,’ says Sherlock, and for the first time John detects a slightly questioning tone in his voice.

‘They do,’ John confirms.

‘And all friends do this?’ Sherlock checks. ‘Without wanting anything in return?’

‘Yes,’ John says emphatically. ‘Obviously it’s nice if people do things for you in return, to say thank you and to show that they appreciate what other people do for them, but you don’t do things for your friends to manipulate them into doing things for you.’

A strange look briefly flits across Sherlock’s face.

‘So,’ Sherlock says. ‘This applies to our relationship, so you like to do things for me, like making tea.’

‘That is correct,’ John says. ‘Very true.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Sherlock says abruptly.

John sighs. That much is bloody obvious.

‘I know that already,’ he replies slowly. ‘But what I’m struggling with is why. Do you not understand why I want to help you out with things?’

‘Of course I understand,’ Sherlock snaps. ‘I’ve just demonstrated that, haven’t I?’

‘So you accept that I want to help,’ John states.

‘Yes,’ says Sherlock.

‘And you understand why I want to help,’ John says blankly.

‘Yes,’ says Sherlock.

‘But you don’t want that help,’ John stares at him incredulously.

‘Yes,’ says Sherlock.

‘Do you realise how ridiculous that sounds?’ John demands.

‘No,’ Sherlock says stubbornly. ‘I don’t need help.’

‘You don’t want to need help,’ John corrects him. ‘That’s not the same thing at all.’

‘I don’t need help,’ Sherlock says again, swiftly.

‘Rubbish,’ John replies dismissively. ‘You’re an intelligent man, Sherlock. You know that something’s wrong. And you know you need help. Come on, you’ve got to tell me. Tell me everything. I promise it will make you feel better.’

‘Pah,’ says Sherlock eloquently.

‘Come on,’ John says coaxingly. ‘What is it? Why are you unable to accept that I want to help you? You must know.’

‘Well, to be fair to me, I’ve only just realised why you want to help me,’ Sherlock glares at him. He evidently doesn’t like insinuations that he is being wilfully obtuse.

‘Yes, why did that take you so long?’ John asks. He is still more than a little puzzled by this.

Sherlock sighs.

‘I had to work it out, obviously,’ Sherlock says. He then adds hastily, ‘Of course, it was ridiculously easy once I had all the relevant data. I came up with the correct answer in less than a day.’

‘But why did you have to figure anything out?’ John persists. ‘I don’t understand - it’s not like the fact that liking someone means you’re prepared to do things for them is really news to anyone.’

Isn’t it? 

‘Well, no-one has ever really cared about my wellbeing before,’ says Sherlock, somewhat defensively. ‘So I didn’t have enough data.’

John stares at Sherlock, who fidgets uncomfortably. Then he has to laugh because, well, that’s just about of the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

‘I’ve never met your family, apart from Mycroft,’ John says. He holds his hand up as Sherlock shows every sign of an imminent interruption. ‘But I’m guessing that they’re the type to take good old British “stiff upper lip” to new heights, hmm?’

‘You’ve heard Mycroft refer to our mother as “Mummy”, John, no guessing should be required,’ Sherlock says stiffly.

‘Well, quite,’ John agrees. He sits back like he’s said all there is to say on the matter.

‘So, what is your point?’ Sherlock demands.

‘My point is, it’s not that I’m the first person to care about you, it’s just that the circles your family ran in while you were growing up prevented any outward displays of emotion,’ John points out. ‘Your mother - ’

‘Mummy does not count,’ Sherlock says waspishly. ‘She is my mother. I carry her genetics. She only cares due to an inbuilt instinct to protect her genes.’

‘That’s not true,’ protests John, but Sherlock glares at him and he decides this battle isn’t worth fighting. ‘Well, what about Lestrade then?’

‘Lestrade cares that I can do his job for him,’ says Sherlock nastily. ‘If it was my murder he was trying to solve – woefully inadequately, I imagine – it’s not like it would be different from any other crime scene.’

John knows that Sherlock is wrong, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s really no point.

‘Mycroft, then?’ he suggests hesitantly.

‘Mycroft?’ Sherlock echoes incredulously. ‘Are you being serious? Mycroft and I loathe each other. He is a lazy git who eats far too many cakes and tries to rule my life via surveillance cameras and by manipulating my acquaintances.’

Again, John knows that this is not true but he knows better than to argue, and anyway his attention has been caught by the wording of Sherlock’s last sentence. _He is a lazy git who eats far too many cakes and tries to rule my life._ The probability that Sherlock’s remarks about Mycroft’s weight might not just be the unkind but unfounded comments of a younger sibling is increasing by the day. Is he passing off his own insecurities onto a brother who he has always felt overshadowed by? That Sherlock feels inferior compared to Mycroft is painfully obvious in the way he draws himself up and insults his brother with impressive regularity. Also painfully obvious is how much Mycroft cares about Sherlock. Sherlock, who misses nothing, must know this. Perhaps their whole relationship is maintained as a charade which keeps both brothers more comfortable, but nevertheless cannot undermine the truth that each of them cares about the other deeply. Is this the only way Sherlock has ever been able to deal with the knowledge that he is cared about?

John decides that discussing Mycroft is a battle for another day.

‘Well, leaving aside all that,’ he says. ‘I care about you. I’m your friend. I’m not trying to help you for an ulterior motive or manipulative reasons - I just want you to get better because I prefer it when you’re not ill. Is that so hard to believe?’

‘No,’ Sherlock says impatiently. ‘I’ve told you, I see all that.’

‘But you think that being helped is some kind of weakness,’ John suggests.

From Sherlock’s somewhat dumbfounded expression, he knows he’s right.

‘I,’ Sherlock says. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

And he disappears off to his room.

***

It is a weakness, it is. There’s nothing else it can be. All his life, it’s been a weakness. He is English. We dust ourselves down and carry on. For hundreds for years the English have brushed off trivialities such as broken legs and broken hearts and continued about their lives as normal. That’s what he’s been brought up to do. Don’t show emotion. Don’t let people see you. You’re English, put that mask back in place. 

Sherlock sits on his bed for a long time.

When he emerges again, the living room is considerably darker but John is still sat in the same place, mug in hand.

‘It’s a weakness,’ Sherlock says abruptly. ‘It is a weakness. I don’t care what you say.’

‘No, it’s not,’ John replies simply. ‘I told you about Afghanistan. You just think about that. You know it makes sense.’

Sherlock sits. Sherlock thinks. Half an hour later, he’s still thinking. John still hasn’t moved.

‘That’s different,’ Sherlock says, as if there’s been no gap in the conversation. ‘Afghanistan is life or death.’

‘Isn’t this?’ John asks, staring over at him intently. Sherlock shivers slightly under his steady gaze.

‘I’m a grown man, we generally don’t need people enquiring about our well-being,’ Sherlock says, dropping his eyes away from John’s face.

‘Don’t we?’ John frowns. ‘I was a grown man in Afghanistan. That wouldn’t have stopped me from dying without my colleagues’ help.’

‘This isn’t Afghanistan,’ Sherlock snaps.

‘But Sherlock,’ John says slowly. ‘You do it too. You enquired about my wellbeing the other day, remember? You asked me if I was okay while we were working on the case. You were worried that I was upset because of my sister.’

Something about his tone of voice makes Sherlock look up again.

‘You weren’t worried about your sister?’ he asks slowly.

‘You clot,’ John says affectionately. ‘I was worried about you.’

‘But why?’ Sherlock says, almost desperately. He doesn’t understand. He has to understand. ‘You must have been worried about your sister. I can see why you would be concerned about your sister – she’s your sister, and I’m given to understand that normal siblings are supposed to be somewhat concerned with each other’s wellbeing – but why me? Yes, we’re friends, but in that situation, when something reminds you of both me and your sister, your primary concern should be for your sister. It’s biology. I don’t understand.’

John almost looks like he’s in pain when he answers.

‘Because you’re my friend, you idiot,’ he says simply. ‘We’ve discussed this. You’re my friend and I care about you. I don’t want you to harm yourself any more than I want my sister to harm myself.’

There is silence for almost two minutes.

‘Is this sentiment?’ Sherlock asks, in the closest thing to a small voice that he ever allows himself to use.

‘Yes,’ John sighs, putting his hands over his eyes. ‘Sentiment. And there’s no shame in that, Sherlock, there’s no weakness. None at all.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, a lot of this is really quite indicative of the British upper classes of the last few hundred years - the typical British Reserve. Emotionally stunted, all of them, and I see quite a lot of that in BBC Sherlock and Mycroft. They're from the right background, as well.
> 
> As you may be able to tell, this fic is starting to draw to a bit of a close. Sherlock has a long way to go yet, obviously, but he's getting there. I'm thinking this might make it to thirty chapters but it's a bit difficult to tell at the moment. 
> 
> I just want to say thanks so much to everyone who has stuck with me thus far! This is by far the longest thing I have ever started writing and actually got anywhere near completing, and I'm so appreciative of all your comments and kudos and even all the hits. I may have done a little dance when it got over 5000 hits...


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand Mycroft appears. Finally. He’s been pushing to get in for a while, but here he is at last. I suspect he’s made his way in because I’ve been writing something new with quite a bit of Mycroft and I couldn’t keep him out of this fic any longer.

John knows that Sherlock has a lot of things to process, so he doesn’t push him for the next week or so. Progress is slow but sure, though. 

It’s halfway through the next week before John finds time to type up the speckled woman case. The progress being made is clear to see as Sherlock peers over his shoulder making his usual derogatory comments, all the while chewing absentmindedly on a piece of toast.

Two weeks, several actual meals and one completely baffling case later, John tentatively brings up the subject once more.

‘Sherlock,’ he says one evening, when they’re sat in companionable silence in the living room. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

‘No,’ Sherlock replies, without looking around.

‘You don’t even know - ’ John starts to protest.

‘Yes I do,’ Sherlock interrupts him firmly. ‘And the answer is no, I don’t want to discuss potential causes or triggers of my _situation_ with you.’

‘You’re going to have to do it sometime,’ John says quietly.

‘We do not need to talk about it,’ Sherlock snaps suddenly. ‘We talked about it two weeks ago. I’m done talking about it.’

‘Yes, and well done you,’ John says, in a placating manner. ‘That was good. But there’s a long way to go yet, Sherlock. We haven’t really talked about why this developed in the first place, other than your determination to be independent.’

‘But I’ve been eating,’ Sherlock says, somewhat desperately. ‘I’ve been eating and I’ve been putting on weight.’

‘I know,’ John agrees. ‘You have, and I’m proud of you. But the thing is, Sherlock, I’ve seen the look on your face while you’re eating and it just shows that there’s more to this than the physical act.’

John’s last sentence is not registered, consciously at least.

‘You’re… _proud_ of me?’ Sherlock repeats, trying out the way the word sounds in his mouth.

‘Of course,’ John blinks. ‘You’re doing really well. Why wouldn’t I be proud of you?’

‘So we really are friends?’ Sherlock checks again. Then he flushes. It’s pathetic, the way he keeps needing reassurance of this.

For a second, John looks a little sad. Then he smiles. He can reassure Sherlock of this all day long if that’s what it takes.

‘Yes, Sherlock,’ he says. ‘Yes we are. So will you tell me?’

‘Oh, you know already,’ Sherlock replies testily, any trace of vulnerability vanishing in an instant. ‘Your presence in my life, you being concerned about whether I was sleeping enough or what have you, it threw me. I didn’t like it. As you are so cleverly thinking, it’s all about control. I resented you trying to dictate to me what I should be doing to take care of myself. Satisfied now?’

Satisfied? That’s maybe not the word John would use.

‘Right,’ he says, nodding. ‘Right. Well done. That’s good. But there’s more, isn’t there? And there are still some things I don’t understand.’

‘More?’ snaps Sherlock. ‘What do you mean; more?’

John looks at him steadily.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We’ll maybe tackle that later. I’ve got questions. Will you answer them?’

‘To the best of my ability,’ Sherlock sneers.

‘Excellent,’ John replies briskly. ‘So. I’m not allowed to do things for you, personal things, but you’re quite happy to let me help out on cases. Why is that?’

There is a short silence while Sherlock digests this. John thinks he already knows the answer, but he waits anyway.

_The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience._

John is Sherlock’s audience; he’s known that right from the very beginning. And if he can help out by writing notes, extracting evidence from Scotland Yard, acting as Sherlock’s diplomatic negotiator and providing the firepower then that’s all well and good, because Sherlock is still the one in the charge, the one calling the shots - sometimes literally, in fact. That’s why it’s okay, because Sherlock is in control. John knows this, he just needs Sherlock to inform him of this fact; to show that he himself has recognised it. 

When the answer does come, it’s not what he’s expecting.

‘I’ve told you, I work fine alone,’ Sherlock bursts out suddenly. ‘I don’t need you on cases. I just let you tag along because your life is so tragic that you have nothing better to do.’

Well. If that wasn’t the answer John was expecting, it has at least confirmed that what he was expecting is true. This confirmation doesn’t stop the little pang of hurt that settles in his gut.

‘I don’t think that’s quite true,’ he says steadily. ‘You need me too. I’ve spoken to Lestrade and he says you used to be a million times worse before I was around. I make you work better. I help you.’

‘Who needs a broken old army doctor with a ridiculous inferiority complex that comes from not being allowed to point a gun at people anymore?’ Sherlock snaps at him. ‘How very Freudian. I can’t see anyone needing you, least of all me. If I did need anyone it definitely would not be a messed up soldier with a fake limp and overbearing mother-hen tendencies. Someone actually useful, perhaps.’

‘You are bloody human, Sherlock!’ John yells, his temper suddenly snapping. ‘I cannot believe that this is where this all stems from. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t want to have any kind of _dependency_ on anyone else, even though having someone occasionally offering to make you dinner isn’t exactly a textbook definition of dependency. This is absurd! If you really want to use that term, then I’m as _dependent_ on you as you are on me.’

He doesn’t mean to yell but dammit, Sherlock just managed to yank all of his insecurities out into the open air at once, and the fact that a potential argument has been brewing since the very start of this saga does not help. 

John knows that Sherlock doesn’t really mean the things he’s just said, but that doesn’t matter right now. He has to leave. He’s down the stairs and out of the flat before he’s even registered what he’s doing. Sherlock Bloody Holmes. He always has to be right and he always has to have to last word. Well, this time he didn’t get it. John feels a childish satisfaction in that.

John’s been walking for at least two miles when the black car pulls up alongside him. Without turning around or breaking stride, he lets its occupants know his feelings on the matter with two eloquent fingers. The car speeds up a little and glides smoothly into a parking space a few feet ahead of John. As the tall figure of Mycroft Holmes emerges, John considers making a run for it. He decides that, on balance, he’s been childish enough already for one night and instead stands his ground.

‘I’m not in the mood to talk right now, sorry to disappoint,’ he announces, glaring at Mycroft.

‘I’ve left you alone to deal with this for an awfully long time,’ Mycroft points out mildly, examining his umbrella. ‘Very restrained of me, don’t you think?’

‘Oh yes, well done you,’ John congratulates him sarcastically, still not moving. ‘It must have been a lot of work for you to keep your meddling nose out for all that time.’

‘Indeed,’ Mycroft agrees calmly, placing the tip of his umbrella carefully back on the pavement. ‘Get in the car, John. We both know you’re going to in the end so why don’t you save us all the tedium and get it over with? I believe we’re starting to attract an audience.’

John glances around briefly. A couple across the road have stopped to stare. Mycroft moves them on with a look. John considers, concedes the point and gets in the car. The moment the door is shut, it pulls away from the kerb.

‘What do you want?’ John asks wearily. He is suddenly exhausted.

‘You’ve done a very good job with my brother, you know,’ Mycroft says casually. ‘A very good job indeed.’

‘Excuse me?’ John says incredulously. ‘We just had a rather spectacular argument in which extremely unhelpful things were said by both of us and which ended with me storming out of the house, leaving Sherlock alone.’

‘You say all that like you think I’m not already aware of it,’ Mycroft frowns disapprovingly.

‘Oh for pity’s sake,’ John sighs. ‘You promised Sherlock no more cameras.’

‘Sherlock has no jurisdiction over the cameras outside your house,’ Mycroft clicks his tongue gently against the roof of his mouth. ‘The rest I merely deduced.’

‘Huh,’ John says. ‘Well. I take it you’ve been watching us for months, then.’

‘But of course,’ Mycroft answers smoothly. ‘Why would you think anything else? I am therefore in a position to state that you have done a good job with Sherlock. You shouldn’t argue with me.’

‘I’m not getting anywhere,’ John admits quietly, to himself as well as Mycroft. ‘He won’t open up to me.’

‘Yes he will,’ Mycroft corrects him, infuriating John. ‘Probably this evening, when you make you way back to Baker Street, but definitely within the next two or three days. I’d stake the country on it.’

 _The scary thing is,_ John thinks, _that Mycroft probably could actually stake the country on it._

‘Why haven’t you done anything about this?’ he demands suddenly. ‘You know Sherlock. How could you let this happen?’

‘My dear fellow, I think you overestimate the influence I have over my brother,’ Mycroft says mildly. ‘Indeed, Sherlock is probably the one area of my life that I have the least control over and that, believe me, is saying something.’

John makes a sceptical noise in his throat.

‘Even when he was a kid?’

‘This was not an issue of Sherlock’s when we were boys,’ Mycroft informs him, gazing out of the window at the Thames, which is currently meandering its way past them at a leisurely pace. ‘It is a very recently acquired issue. I have always seen the potential there, of course, but I do believe it was your presence it his life which rather, ah, shall we say it kick-started proceedings?’

‘Well gee thanks,’ John mutters.

‘Do not take offense,’ Mycroft says sternly. ‘This is a good thing. Sherlock is working his issues out. In time this will prove to be a turning point in his life, for the better of course.’

There is a short silence. They’ve travelled through three sets of traffic lights before either of them speaks again.

‘He’s named it after you, you know,’ John says suddenly, figuring that there is little to be gained from keeping quiet now.

‘Has he really?’ Mycroft says pensively. ‘I cannot say I am surprised. Meddlesome, interfering, controlling, that sort of thing?’

‘I imagine so,’ John replies. ‘He hasn’t exactly shared his reasoning with me.’

‘One could almost say I am flattered,’ Mycroft muses. John looks up at him sharply. ‘Almost.’

‘He does eat now,’ John tells him. ‘Sometimes he takes a bit of prompting but he never complains. It’s just that I know he’s not happy about it.’

‘Again, John, the very idea that you think I do not know such things wounds me,’ Mycroft says. ‘He’s put on a lot of weight, though. A good stone over the last month, I’d wager.’

‘He hasn’t been weighing himself,’ John shrugs. ‘I took the scales off him.’

‘Which was sensible of you,’ Mycroft inclines his head. ‘But nevertheless, Sherlock will know to within two pounds exactly how much he weighs.’

John sighs. He’s been fearful of that.

‘I couldn’t exactly confiscate his deductive skills, could I?’ he says, resigned.

‘I shouldn’t worry,’ says Mycroft, raising one eyebrow. ‘He’ll be charting his own progress. It’ll be an experiment for him.’

‘He cannot experiment with his own health,’ John snaps suddenly.

‘Sherlock’s whole life is an experiment,’ Mycroft contradicts him. ‘I have learnt to accept that. Take you, for example.’

‘Me?’ John frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘An experiment in human relationships,’ Mycroft explains. ‘How to have a friend, if you will. Sherlock has no need of financial assistance. He could buy the whole of 221 Baker Street if he so desired. Or rather, I could buy it for him. I’m afraid we have not yet seen fit to give Sherlock control of his trust fund.’

At any other time, John would be interested in this. But not now, not today.

‘I’m just an experiment?’ he echoes.

‘But of course,’ Mycroft looks mildly surprised at his reaction. ‘And probably the most successful one Sherlock has carried out to date. He will realise this, when all the data is collated. Don’t worry, Dr Watson, he’ll not be throwing you out any time soon.’

‘I rather think that depends on whether we can actually make any progress with this,’ John says grimly.

‘Progress is being made,’ Mycroft assures him.

‘I know he’s putting on weight,’ John replies, somewhat impatiently. ‘I’m talking about - ’

‘Forgive me,’ Mycroft interrupts him. ‘But I know exactly what you are talking about. You will have to trust me on this, but progress is being made in Sherlock’s head as we speak, as an extension to the progress that has been going on in his head for the last few weeks. I’ve told you, he will speak to you very soon.’

‘Do you know what he’s going to say?’ John asks curiously.

‘Yes,’ Mycroft says simply.

‘And are you going to tell me?’

‘No.’

Thought not.

‘Why not?’ John frowns.

‘You need to hear it from Sherlock as much as Sherlock needs to say it out loud,’ Mycroft explains. ‘Hearing it from me will not help you to understand nearly as well as hearing it from Sherlock will.’

‘Right,’ John says. ‘Right. Tonight, you said?’

‘Perhaps tomorrow, it is a little hard to pin down from afar,’ Mycroft frowns. ‘I could go and see him myself to give you a more accurate idea, but I am given to understand that my presence may not be particularly welcome.’

‘No,’ John agrees. He is disappointed though. He so desperately wants to understand.

‘Patience, Dr Watson,’ Mycroft says, displaying once again the unnerving Holmes mind-reading skills. ‘I will, perhaps, give you one piece of information on which to ruminate. A certain, ah, encounter in the not so distant past has muddled Sherlock. Your presence in his life was beginning to change his mind about certain things and then something, or rather someone, knocked him out of kilter again.’

John scowls.

‘Would you stop being so bloody cryptic?’ he grumbles.

Mycroft acts as if he hasn’t heard.

‘Ah, here we are’ he says. ‘Baker Street. Perfect timing as usual. Good luck with my brother, John, and try not to worry so. Sherlock always has done things at his own pace.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I won’t be able to post any new chapters for a bit because I’m going away with my family for a few days. Just in case anyone’s interested I’m actually going to London (yay!). Despite the fact that I am English and have lived in England my whole life, I hardly ever go to London and haven’t been there on holiday for over ten years, so wish me good luck in persuading my parents that it is a worthwhile and touristy thing to do to go to North Gower Street and stare at a front door and a café awning! 
> 
> In other news… As you might have seen from the chapter count, I think I have finally worked out how many more chapters you can expect. I know exactly what is going to happen and how many chapters I think it will take, but I frequently find that I have more to say than I have planned for, so nothing is set in stone right now. As it stands, you should all expect two more chapters and then an epilogue of sorts.
> 
> And in other other news - with the end of this fic coming up, I’m writing something new! Yay! I’m really excited about it. (Yes, I have exams coming up in June; yes, it is stupid to start writing something completely new when I should be revising; yes, I should know better; no, it’s not going to stop me.) Probably the only way in which my new fic will be similar to ‘Under the Coat’ is in terms of the amount of angst - apparently I cannot write anything else and just like torturing myself and anyone else who wants to read my stuff - but it would be nice if anyone who is interested might like to give it a try. I’m not going to start publishing it until ‘Under the Coat’ is completed and I’ve got a good few chapters of the new fic done (the plan, the opening two or three chapters, a few juicy ones in the middle and the final chapter are finished already - now for the hard bit!), but I’ll let you know all about it soon just in case anyone is interested. No pressure, obviously, I’d just be delighted if one or two of you lovely people did want to give it a go.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely people! I am back from London, and yes I had an amazing time and thank you so much to those of you who told me to have fun! Anyone who does not want to read my possibly slightly fan-crazed ramblings should feel free to skip ahead to the next paragraph, but I do need to vent my excitement because I may not be a closeted ‘Sherlock’ fan but I am a bit of a closeted Sherlockian and my family did not quite appreciate my enthusiasm. So, I got to go to Speedy’s and had the obligatory photos taken by my rather reluctant brother, while chatting to a couple of fellow Sherlockians who were also taking photos. Unfortunately I didn’t get to go to Baker Street because we were a little short on time and I was given the choice between there and North Gower Street. I chose Speedy’s, obviously. I also went to the Tower of London, but there were no Moriarty-style heists occurring. For any Harry Potter fans, I did get to go to King’s Cross and have my photo taken pushing the luggage trolley through the wall under the Platform 9 ¾ sign as well. To be honest, I am a little unsure which photograph is more exciting, but I am coming down on the side of Speedy’s. And, in a truly random bit of news, we also happened across the filming of the new Muppets film which was cool. Anyway, that’s the end of my London news, although I doubt many of you are really interested!
> 
> So, here is a new chapter for you all, written in a hotel room in London while mourning the lack of internet access. At least it let me get a lot of writing done!

Sherlock looks at John as he walks in through the door.

‘You’ve been speaking to Mycroft,’ he says.

John knows it’s useless to try and deny it.

‘Yes,’ he nods.

‘And what did my dear brother want?’ Sherlock asks, with the air of someone who knows exactly what answer they’re about to receive.

Again, there is no point in lying.

‘He said you’d got something to tell me, probably tonight but he wasn’t absolutely sure,’ John says slowly, still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

‘Oh, did he now?’ Sherlock says with a sneer. ‘Well if Saint Mycroft decrees it then it must be so.’

‘Don’t be like this,’ John implores him. ‘Please.’

It’s an apology as well as a plea. Sherlock doesn’t like apologies very much.

‘Huh.’

_Apology accepted. And I’m, uh, sorry too._

John shrugs his coat off.

‘Tea?’

‘Oh sit down, John,’ Sherlock says waspishly. ‘We may as well get this over with.’

Obediently, John sits.

‘You don’t understand,’ says Sherlock abruptly, after several tense moments of silence.

‘No, I do,’ John replies quickly. ‘You think it’s a weakness to be depending on people to do things for you and you don’t like people to care - ’

‘It’s not just that.’

Oh.

‘Well, it is,’ Sherlock concedes. John sits back, quite willing just to let Sherlock talk. Once Sherlock’s ready to speak, it’s best just to let him get on with it. Countless deductions have taught him this. ‘It is like that, but it didn’t really start off that way. It wasn’t that I suddenly felt some ridiculous teenage rebellious urge and decided that if you were encouraging me to eat then I was not going to eat just to be contrary. It started off as a game. From a very young age - Mycroft would say far too young - I’ve tried to have as much absolute control over my life as possible. Of course, with a brother like my own, that is almost impossible but I do my best.’ As if John hasn’t noticed this. ‘One of Mycroft’s few endearing qualities is that he has never been very much concerned about mundane things like food and sleep - he’s always been preoccupied by casual drug use and dangerous occupations - but then you arrived, and suddenly food and general wellbeing was the most important thing in the world. I get bored, and it was a game to me - seeing how long I could go without eating and whether or not you’d believe me if I told you I’d eaten and slept when the evidence was very much to the contrary. I was bored and it was a distraction; just a game. It was fun.’ 

‘Just a game?’ John repeats, horrified. He can’t believe it. ‘Sherlock, you can’t play games with stuff like this.’

Sherlock just looks at him. John suddenly realises the horrendous irony of their previous hyperthyroidism game.

‘And what made it not a game anymore?’ John whispers, feeling very unsure about whether or not he actually wants to know the answer.

‘This and that,’ Sherlock shrugs, sounding as if they’re discussing the weather or the football scores. ‘Things spiralled out of control a little more than I anticipated. It was a lack of judgement on my part. It won’t happen again.’

It had bloody better not.

John frowns. This all makes so much sense. So typically Sherlock. So painfully, horribly Sherlock.

‘But I was still functional, of course,’ Sherlock continues lightly. ‘Until a certain, ah, incident. Our incident in the bathroom, shall we say? I was… adversely affected by your reaction to me. I stopped eating. Entirely. That hadn’t happened before. Everything was controlled but still very much happening up until then. I may have fallen down slightly. Again, it was regretfully unanticipated.’

John closes his eyes. This is all his fault. Sherlock was eating, albeit in small amounts, and then he saw John’s reaction to his body and stopped eating completely. For a whole week. It is all John’s fault. It’s bad enough that Sherlock started this ridiculous game (game?!) because of his presence here in the flat, but this is different. 

_Oh God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. Forgive me._

‘It’s not your fault,’ Sherlock says. ‘So there’s nothing to forgive.’

John is so used to these disconcerting mindreading moments that it doesn’t even register.

‘Of course it’s my fault,’ he whispers. ‘How could it not be?’

‘Even the best of us cannot be blamed for our involuntary reactions,’ Sherlock informs him severely. ‘Honestly John, I was labouring under the delusion that doctors are supposed to be reasonably good scientists, hopefully with a modicum of common sense. You are disappointing me.’

‘Everyone disappoints you, Sherlock,’ John says wearily, passing a hand over his face.

‘Most people,’ Sherlock agrees. ‘But not everyone. Some people continuously surprise me, even when I think I’ve got them sussed.’

Something suddenly clunks into place in John’s weary brain. Fresh memories from his conversation with Mycroft, Sherlock’s wording, the mention of playing games, he doesn’t know, but everything is suddenly much clearer.

‘This is to do with Moriarty,’ he says slowly.

‘Oh, very good John,’ Sherlock congratulates him with every impression of sincerity. ‘How big a clue did Mycroft give you?’

‘Just something he said,’ John says dazedly, pieces still rolling around clumsily in his head. ‘This is something to do with Moriarty and the whole “I don’t want people to care about me” thing.’

Sherlock is nodding encouragingly, like he sometimes does when he’s trying to walk John through his deductions without actually telling him the answer. How he can remain so detached John has no idea, but something has obviously switched in Sherlock’s mind-set and far be it for him to switch it back again.

‘You admire him,’ John slowly realises. ‘And he said that you two are just alike, except he’s a criminal and you’re not. You like to think that you could have been just like Moriarty, except you chose not to be. Secretly, you like having someone who cares about you even if it confuses you and you don’t think it’s logical, so now you’ve lost that illusion because someone like Moriarty doesn’t need to be liked and he doesn’t need friends. You don’t like the idea that you couldn’t have been anything that you wanted.’

‘I _could_ have been anything that I wanted,’ Sherlock snaps, the façade crumbling slightly.

‘No, you couldn’t,’ John counters. ‘You wish you could have been and you always thought that you could, but both Moriarty and I have forced you to realise that you couldn’t. Bloody hell, Sherlock Holmes is human after all.’

‘No,’ Sherlock glares at him. ‘No, no, no.’

John realises that it’s probably not a good idea to be gloating about having worked it all out, not when it’s about something like this. The problem is; he’s having to work hard to stave off too much guilt.

The crux of the matter is this - before John appeared in his life, Sherlock clearly fancied that he could do whatever he wanted, be whatever he wanted no matter what. He could have been Moriarty, if he’d so chosen, and no-one could have done anything about it. And then John appeared, and slowly but surely took that illusion away from him. He didn’t smash it into little pieces all in one go, but that bullet fired on the first evening they ever spent together cracked the illusion right down the middle, and John has been picking little shards and fragments off ever since. It was only when the whole thing became too unstable and collapsed that Sherlock noticed anything had changed. And he couldn’t accept it. And he still quite hasn’t.

‘Sorry,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m sorry. But you’re not Moriarty. You know that.’

‘Obviously,’ Sherlock sneers, the well-mannered front well and truly gone now. ‘I’m not the one who constantly needs obvious deductions pointing out, John.’

‘You’re not Moriarty,’ John repeats sternly, completely ignoring Sherlock. ‘You must see that, after the swimming pool incident. If you were Moriarty, you would’ve walked away and let me be blown up. So you do care. You are human. You just have to let yourself be. It’s not a weakness to feel things. It’s not a weakness to let people care about you and to care about them in return. It’s not a weakness to enjoy letting someone make you a cup of tea and allowing them to worry about you when you don’t get enough sleep. You have to realise this. It’s so important. You are not Moriarty. You’re worth a hundred of him, and you’re a far better man than he could ever be.’

_Come on, Sherlock. You have to see. For me. Please._

‘Worth a hundred of him?’ Sherlock echoes. ‘I wasn’t aware your many gifts extended to writing romanticised poetry as well as blog entries, John. And as it has clearly escaped your notice, no-one else is queuing up to congratulate me on being such a great member of society. Everyone else thinks I’m a colossal pain in the arse at best and a dangerous psychopath on the brink of murder spree at worst.’

‘I don’t care what everyone else thinks,’ says John firmly. ‘They don’t know you, not really.’

‘Oh, this just gets better and better,’ Sherlock laughs. It’s an utterly humourless sound. ‘Do let me know when your first volume of poetry is coming out, John. I’ll even ask you to autograph it if you like.’

‘Shut up,’ John says. He’s so close to understanding that he cannot worry about being careful with his words now. ‘Just listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. You are not Moriarty. You could not have been Moriarty. Deep down, you care about people. You are not a psychopath. You are not a sociopath. I don’t care what people label you as now and what people have labelled you as in the past. There is nothing wrong with you. You’re different, yes, but there is nothing wrong with you. You just need to get this into your head - caring is not a weakness. Being cared about is not a weakness. Not having the ability to be a criminal mastermind and blow up innocent old ladies is not a weakness. Having friends is not a weakness. Being too bloody minded to let people care about you; that is a weakness. Being too stubborn to allow someone to be your friend is a weakness.’

‘Becoming dependent on someone is a weakness,’ Sherlock argues, interrupting.

‘Yes,’ admits John. ‘But you’re not dependent on me. I’m not dependent on you. We live together and we don’t have completely separate lives, but that doesn’t indicate dependency.’

Sherlock’s expression clearly states that he disagrees.

‘I don’t want to be _reliant_ on someone,’ he spits out, looking appalled at the very thought.

John sighs. A lot of the fight suddenly drains out of him. He’s tired and a little more than slightly emotional and his head is something terribly.

‘No,’ he says quietly. ‘I know you don’t, Sherlock. Neither do I. But caring is not a weakness, no matter what it feels like. Friends make you stronger. Afghanistan, remember?’

‘London is hardly Afghanistan,’ Sherlock says stiffly.

‘When I met your brother for the first time, before I knew who he was,’ John replies, smiling slightly at the memory. ‘He welcomed me back to the battlefield. He said that walking in London with Sherlock Holmes was like seeing the battlefield all over again.’

‘He did?’

Sherlock looks surprised and also, John thinks, just a little bit flattered.

‘He did,’ John confirms. ‘This might not be Afghanistan, Sherlock, but we’re all sure as hell stronger with our friends around us.’


	26. Chapter 26

The next day, Sherlock is calmer than John has seen him in a long time. Although he wouldn’t admit it, John suspects that his friend feels quite unburdened by the conversation yesterday. John, on the other hand, feels positively overwhelmed by a whole deluge of information. And still brim-full of unanswered questions.

‘Spit it out,’ Sherlock orders, after a lunch which he managed to eat at least three quarters of without pulling too many unhappy faces.

‘What’s that now?’

John knows that feigning ignorance is usually a wasted effort, but he tries it anyway. He’s not sure he’s quite ready for this conversation yet.

‘Oh, stop it,’ scowls Sherlock. ‘You’re still confused, you’ve still got questions. So, spit it out. You’re thinking so hard that it’s interrupting _my_ thinking.’

Any other time, John might almost think that was nearly a compliment.

‘And of course, your thinking is much more important than my thinking,’ he mutters.

‘And I’m glad that we both know it,’ Sherlock replies. John knows better than to think that that is a joke.

‘Right,’ John says, taking a deep breath. He might as well get it over with. Sherlock won’t let it go until he does. ‘I’m still confused, after last night. I still don’t understand what’s so bad about everything. I understand what you said about dependency and weakness and not wanting to have to be reliant on others, because we all like to be independent to varying degrees. I really do get it, but there’s being dependent and then there’s just accepting that someone else cares. There’s a difference. We talked about Moriarty, but what good has it done him? He’s alone. He has acquaintances, not friends. If you’d have blown up that swimming pool, no-one would have mourned for him. People do what he says because they’re scared of him, but when you think about it that’s really just a little bit tragic.’

‘Why would he want friends?’ Sherlock asks. There is no antagonism in his tone; he’s genuinely asking. ‘He’s got his work and his fun and the game. Why does he need anything else?’

Oh, Sherlock.

‘I’ve seen a lot of people die,’ John says. Sherlock looks up sharply, but he keeps going. ‘I’ve seen people die very suddenly and I’ve seen people have to cope with months of knowing that they’re not going to get better. Every single patient and every single family and every single situation is different, but there’s always one thing that connects them. In someone’s last minutes, or their last hours or their last months, they’re not asking about work. They’re not asking about whether that really important deal went through, or whether their colleague remembered to file that form for them. I’ve never seen someone choose to spend their final time on Earth in any other way than with their family and friends, or wishing that they had family and friends to be with them. You might be married to your work, but she won’t be faithful to you. When you’re gone, she’ll be off with the next person she meets who's half as good as you. Your friends - ’ _me_ ‘ - wouldn’t do that. That’s why.’

‘At least my work is faithful to me in my lifetime,’ Sherlock glares at him, but the usual heat is missing from his expression. ‘Who cares about what will be happening when I’m dying? That’s years away.’

_You hope. I hope._

‘Friends are faithful to you in your lifetime,’ John replies.

And that look that appears on Sherlock’s face, just for an instant? That’s the answer. Everything else is just debris. How did John not see this before?

‘You think I’m going to leave,’ John says, the horrendous realisation dawning embarrassingly quickly now. ‘You’ve never had a friend, a family member, a relationship of any kind where you’ve even wanted to let someone care about you before. But then I came along. And now, part of you wants to let yourself care; part of you suddenly understands why people kill their daughter’s rapist and stab the guy who mugged their granny, but every single “friend” you’ve ever had in your life has used you and left you when it was convenient and you’ve been let down. You think I’m going to do the same, despite all the times I’ve told you that I’m not.’

‘You what?’ Sherlock snaps.

Nail on the head. No question.

‘I’m not going to leave, Sherlock,’ John says urgently. ‘I live here. This is my life now. Living with you and helping you hunt down criminals and stopping you from murdering Anderson every other weekend.’

‘You’ll get fed up and leave sometime soon,’ Sherlock spits out venomously, anger suddenly rising to the surface. ‘Everyone does. Why would anyone want to stay around me for any length of time? I’m a freak, I’m a weirdo. People don’t like me.’

‘I like you,’ John says. ‘And no, you’re not always the easiest of people to get on with, but I’ve done the hard bit. If I was going to walk away, I would’ve done it within the first 48 hours of knowing you. I killed a man with an illegal service revolver when we’d barely known each for a day, for God’s sake. As symbols of undying devotion go, that one’s pretty radical.’

John is starting to realise why everyone thinks they’re a couple, but to hell with that. He doesn’t have time for that now.

‘But it doesn’t made sense,’ Sherlock replies, almost desperately. ‘I’m not exactly everything you’d want in a friend. It doesn’t add up. I don’t respect your personal boundaries, I drag you out of bed at all hours on cases, I let you get all the shopping, I don’t do anything around the flat. Why would you stay? All the evidence says that eventually you will get fed up and leave.’

‘Sod the evidence,’ John says with feeling. Sherlock looks positively scandalised. ‘At least, don’t look at that evidence, Sherlock. Look at the evidence which says that I follow you around to crime scenes, that I _let_ you drag me out of bed at unholy hours of the night, that I take far too much time off work because you profess to need my assistance or, more likely, my gun, that I’m still damn here and trying to help you even though you’re determined that you don’t need it. Look at that evidence, because God only knows it’s staring you in the face.’

There is silence. 

‘But the other evidence - ’ Sherlock starts to protest. John is having none of it.

‘A good scientist must know which pieces of evidence are useful in drawing his conclusions, and which ones he should discard,’ says John.

‘But the chances of you being the one anomaly, the one person on Earth who could put up with me,’ Sherlock says. ‘They’re astronomical.’

‘And what are the chances of falling in love?’ John counters. ‘What are the chances of finding the one person who you love more than just about anyone in the world and are therefore prepared to put up with all of their foibles and quirks and annoying habits, and not only that but they feel the same way about you? Put scientifically, it’s a wonder that anyone ever finds someone to spend the rest of their life with.’

And again. He’s really got to stop doing this. No-one is ever going to believe him that he and Sherlock are not together if he starts talking about the two of them as if they’re some kind of soulmates. Although, come to think of it that might not be such a bad description…

_Shut up, Watson._

‘The odds are against it,’ Sherlock is saying. ‘That’s why so many marriages end in divorce or infidelity or domestic violence or kidnapping or murder.’

‘Yes, alright Sherlock, not really my point,’ John says hastily.

‘Well what is your point?’ Sherlock demands impatiently.

‘My point is that I’m not leaving,’ John answers simply. ‘You’re worried I’m going to leave. In fact, you’re convinced I’m going to leave at some point, and I’m trying to show you that you’re wrong.’

‘I’m never wrong,’ says Sherlock sullenly.

‘Is that so?’ John asks. ‘Well then genius; tell me how an ordinary person would have reacted to my meeting with you and the taxi driver case that you dragged me into. What would the normal reaction have been?’

‘That was all calculated and pre-judged,’ Sherlock protests. ‘I knew exactly what you needed and exactly how you would respond to certain situations.’

‘Not me,’ John says firmly. ‘Someone else. Someone off the street. A randomer that Mike had brought to meet you.’

There is silence.

‘You see,’ says John. ‘You’re trying to come to conclusions based on data from your previous acquaintances, but there is one big flaw in that method - none of your previous acquaintances were me. People are the biggest variable in life, and you can’t apply one single theory to everyone.’

‘But you can’t know that you’ll always stay,’ Sherlock replies slowly, clearly thinking hard. ‘It’s not like I’m family - you have no obligation.’

‘My family is Harry,’ John says dismissively. ‘I’d much rather have you.’

‘But if it came down to it,’ Sherlock persists. ‘If you had to choose, you’d choose Harry. Because she’s your sister. You have a responsibility towards her.’

‘Why do I have to choose?’ John demands. ‘I can conceive of no possible situation where I would have to choose between my best friend and my sister.’

‘Your what?’

The words clearly leap out of Sherlock’s mouth against his will, and he looks like he wishes he could take them back at once.

John doesn’t reply. Sherlock knows perfectly well what he said and he doesn’t want to make him feel any more uncomfortable.

‘You see, Sherlock,’ John says, when it becomes clear that Sherlock has no further plans to speak either. ‘I am the anomaly. Just like you’re the anomaly for me - the one person who could have given me what I was looking for in post-Afghanistan London.’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock whispers. ‘Yes.’

‘Right,’ John says, suddenly at a bit of a loss. ‘Erm, tea? And I bought some of those biscuits you really like the other day. You know, the ridiculously expensive ones?’

Sherlock considers. John holds his breath.

‘Yes please,’ Sherlock replies eventually, an alarmingly pleasant smile on his face. ‘That was… good of you. Thank you.’

In the kitchen, John allows himself to lean against the worktop and bury his face briefly in his hands. It’s out now. It’s all out in the open. There’s a long way to go - he’s not foolish enough to think otherwise and neither is Sherlock - but now Sherlock can finally start getting better.

God help London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. I mentioned last week that I am writing another fic, so I thought I should probably talk a bit about it beyond the fact that it will be filled with angst (I like angst, go with it). So, here is some information about my latest project:
> 
> Title - ‘A Study in Black and White’ (I told myself I would never go for the cliché of an ‘A Study in …’ title but there we go...).
> 
> Type of fic - It's both an AU (another thing I said I would never do - such conviction I have!) and a crossover (yet _another_ thing I never saw myself doing…). And there's angst. Lots of angst. You'll see why when you read the summary.
> 
> A crossover with what..? - With a series of books for teenagers called ‘Noughts and Crosses’ by Malorie Blackman. Having said that, it’s probably not strictly speaking a crossover because I have just borrowed the universe and plopped the Sherlock characters into it. You therefore definitely don’t need to have read the books, or even have heard of them, to be able to understand the fic. I would hate for someone not to give it a go purely because they thought they wouldn't understand. You will. I guarantee it.
> 
> Length - Rather long... Longer than 'Under the Coat'. Longer chapters. More chapters. It's long.
> 
> Characters - Focuses on Sherlock, Mycroft and John pretty much equally. Moriarty and Lestrade also feature. Plus a couple of others...
> 
> Summary - Basically, the 'Noughts and Crosses' books are set in a modern, 21st Century world of racial apartheid, but where light-skinned people are oppressed instead of dark-skinned people, and this is the concept I have transplanted the 'Sherlock' characters into. This obviously puts Sherlock, Mycroft and John on the side of the oppressed, and the fic is about their individual and joint battles to try and put things right. As you can imagine, Moriarty - among other people and things - may not make this quite as easy for them as they would like.
> 
> That's about it for now I think. I know it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea by any means but I'm so enjoying writing it (even though I think it will prove to be a massive challenge for me), and I’d so love it if a few people would at least give it a try!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh. The end. I’m sad, guys :( But, I’m not going to lie, I’m also quite proud of myself. This is by far the longest piece of writing I have ever managed to complete, and all of the comments and kudos and so on really helped me on my way so I am absurdly grateful to you all. I hope you enjoy this little epilogue of sorts :)

John never thought he’d see the day when he’d be even slightly glad to find the fridge entirely filled with Sherlock’s experiments just two days after his last trip to the supermarket.

‘Sherlock!’ he yells. ‘Sherlock! What’s all this? You’ve got a fridge of your own for all this stuff. What’s this with the corrosive label on it?’

‘You don’t want to touch that,’ Sherlock says sharply, appearing in the doorway through to the living room.

‘What is it?’ John asks suspiciously. ‘And more to the point, what have you done with all the food?’

‘I’ve eaten it,’ Sherlock blinks. The ‘duh’ is no quieter for being unspoken.

‘You’ve eaten it,’ repeats John slowly.

‘Well what else was I supposed to do with it?’ Sherlock frowns. ‘Really John, you do make such a fuss.’

‘Of course you’ve eaten it,’ John says, shaking his head. ‘But Sherlock, there were twelve eggs in there. You’ve eaten twelve eggs?’

‘I may have enlisted Mrs Hudson a little,’ Sherlock replies, head on one side. ‘She promised to bake something with the remaining eggs when I couldn’t eat them all.’

‘Right,’ John nods slowly. ‘And do I want to know how many eggs you ate?’

‘Probably not,’ says Sherlock cheerily. ‘Then there was that slab of cheese and the bunch of bananas and that half a tin of tuna and the leftover pizza from Tuesday evening. I just about managed to make room to leave quite a few of the vegetables and the stewing steak - I thought you might have plans for that and I didn’t really have time to cook anything very much.’

‘Bloody hell,’ John says with feeling. ‘Why didn’t you just throw it all away? That’s what you normally do.’

Their eyes meet. John’s are narrowed and Sherlock’s are bright; brighter than they have been for months. His cheekbones are much less pronounced than they have been, too. John suspects that if he were to smack his friend in the face today, rather than a couple of months ago, it wouldn’t be nearly as painful on his behalf. 

Sherlock has also filled out in a way that tells John that the food he is now undeniably eating is not being brought back up again at the earliest possible opportunity. His clothes fit him better now. Hell, his skin fits him better now. Sherlock is eating. He’s eating of his own volition and his own free will and there are definite signs that he’s actually enjoying food again. He’s still Sherlock, so it’s still all just transport, his eating patterns are still dubious at best and he still never eats on a case, John, how many times do I have to tell you, but he is eating. He is now so au fait with eating that if he sees a fridge full of food where he wants to store his experiments, then by far the simplest thing to do is just to eat it all and get it out of the way. Obviously.

Sherlock is not anorexic. Sherlock is not bulimic. Sherlock is not starving himself. Sherlock is not binging. Sherlock is just Sherlock.

‘Done scrutinising me, John?’ Sherlock enquires lightly, breaking through John’s thoughts.

‘I - ’ he says quickly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Go ahead, look your fill,’ Sherlock replies, completely unselfconscious. ‘You know I encourage any opportunity for you to improve your deduction skills.’

‘I think I’ve got a way to go yet,’ John says wryly.

‘No doubt,’ says Sherlock casually. ‘But you never know. Maybe you’ll get there one day, John.’

This whole conversation is quickly proving to be a nice lead-in to something John’s been wanting to ask about for the past month at least. He takes a deep breath.

‘So,’ he says, with what he judges to be a fair imitation of casualness as he turns to inspect the contents of the fridge again. ‘We haven’t seen much of Mycroft in the past couple of months. How is he, do you know?’

There is a minute pause behind him. John doesn’t move.

‘Mycroft is the same as ever,’ Sherlock answers slowly. ‘Nosy. Persistent. Lazy. Bossy. Thinks he knows what’s best for me. He doesn’t, of course.’

‘No,’ says John softly, still not daring to turn around. ‘He doesn’t. Have you told him this?’

‘Many times,’ Sherlock confirms. ‘And firmly. But I doubt he’ll get the message and he will certainly be back. He always has been stubborn like that, but I know how to deal with him.’

John does turn around now.

‘Of that I have no doubt,’ he smiles. ‘Stubbornness is clearly a family trait.’

His grin becomes wider as Sherlock looks offended at the very idea that he might have something in common with either Mycroft.

‘John,’ he says. ‘It is a good job you’re my friend, otherwise I would have some strong words for you.’

‘It’s never stopped you before,’ John points out, turning back to the fridge once more. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get on with doing something with this stewing steak that I supposedly have plans for. Are you hungry after your enormous lunch?’

There is silence, which lasts long enough that John to turns around to look at Sherlock. The expression on Sherlock’s face is so unusual that it takes John a while to place it as being sheepish.

‘Erm, John, if you’re planning on doing something with that stewing steak then you should probably know that we may be a little short on potatoes. And also onions.’

‘What the?’ John splutters. ‘Potatoes don’t even live in the fridge, so what’s your excuse for those? Oh, why am I even surprised? What experiment did you perform on them, then?’

‘How many potatoes I could eat when reasonably hungry,’ Sherlock replies nonchalantly, not quite meeting John’s gaze. ‘Carried it out last night while you were off gallivanting with Stamford. Although I will admit that those that were left over were, ahem, utilised in my osmosis experiment this afternoon.’

‘And the onions?’

‘Can’t have an omelette without onions.’

Sherlock sounds so affronted by the very idea that John has to laugh.

‘Well then,’ he says, still chuckling. ‘If you want dinner, you’d better get your arse down to the supermarket and replenish everything you’ve used.’

‘Ah,’ says Sherlock. ‘Yes. I was rather afraid you’d come up with that solution.’

‘And?’

‘I am not enamoured of the idea, to tell you the truth.’

‘Do you want dinner?’ John asks threateningly. 

It is amazing how much has changed from half a year or so ago.

‘I must warn you that if I go to the supermarket then I may come back with slightly more than potatoes and onions.’

‘As if I don’t know that,’ John scoffs. ‘Now get out of here, or we won’t get dinner until tomorrow bloody morning.’

‘If you insist,’ Sherlock sighs resignedly, looking and sounding for all the world like a long suffering spouse.

‘I do,’ John says firmly, sticking his head back in the fridge and eying up the contents dubiously.

‘Don’t you dare touch any of that stuff while I am out,’ Sherlock warns him, pulling on his coat.

‘Won’t dream of it,’ replies John. ‘I value my life too highly. Now go on, out, before I call Mrs Hudson to chase you outside with her broom. Again.’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t keep bringing that up,’ Sherlock says mournfully, now tying his scarf and heading for the door.

‘If you would just leave you wouldn’t have to listen to me talking about it,’ John says, unrepentant. ‘And if you come back with six packs of pickled onion flavoured crisps and a cucumber again then I will not be responsible for my actions.’

Sherlock’s response comes from halfway down the stairs.

‘I’m promising nothing, John! And anyway, I thought my crisp and spaghetti concoction was really rather good.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING, I’m about to get a little soppy, for which I apologise, but it’s important for me to say… The thing is, I’ve written all my life and before I discovered ‘Sherlock’ I used to write in another fandom. Then, about a year ago, I had the worst two or three months of my life where some horrible stuff happened to me, and as a result I lost all interest and completely stopped writing. This fandom and everyone who has read my writing has really helped me to get back to enjoying it again, so if even if you’ve only been reading this and not commenting or anything, you have still been amazingly encouraging for me and I owe you all a million thank yous!
> 
> Now, that’s the end of the soppiness so I’ll get on with the rest of what I have to say. Like I said before, a new fic is coming. The first chapter (a prologue) will be published within a week. When exactly depends on how much guilt-driven revision I end up doing. And once more, the new fic can probably be summed up quite easily:
> 
> _Sherlock. Mycroft. John. AU. Racism. Apartheid. Freedom fighters. Moriarty. A lot of angst, but happy endings._
> 
> To anyone who wants to read, I’ll see you there, and to anyone who finds it not their cup of tea, thanks for coming along with me on ‘Under the Coat’ - I’ve appreciated your company and your kind words on the journey!


End file.
